Sanctuary
by Cheryl W
Summary: When Dean’s near misses with death start adding up, Sam is brutally reminded that there is no such thing as just having a bad day when you are a Winchester. No Slash.
1. Chapter 1: Off to a Bad Start

Sanctuary

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Summary: When Dean's near misses with death start adding up, Sam is brutally reminded that there is no such thing as _just_ having a bad day when you are a Winchester. No Slash.

**Author's Note**: The medical procedures/knowledge in this story is pure hogwash. Do not test it out on your younger siblings! I simply picked from old wives' tales, some medical jargon I learned from tv and what I felt would be fun to have Dean or Sam endure. (I nearly pass out just watching medical shows these days but somehow seeing Dean hurt doesn't upset me, turn my stomach or make me cringe…I seem to enjoy it. Maybe I should look into getting the "other" type of medical assistance!)

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Prologue: Dawn

Dawn. It had been Dean Winchester's sanctuary on more than one occasion. Its beckoning light ending some horrific standoff he had engaged in with an evil incarnate. Dean had always considered Dawn his last line of defense.

Not so today. Today darkness was his ally, in its dark depths he was safe, protected, unmarked. The first glint of sunlight through the motel blinds would signify the first volley of the war. A war he had waged before, a war he had won before, if just barely. But then he wasn't usually one to squabble about how bumpy the road to a victory was.

So, in the predawn darkness, he shouldered his bag and picked up the Impala keys silently from the motel room table, determined that his escape would go undetected. His hand was on the motel room's door knob but his eyes disobeyed his every rational command and flickered over to the still sleeping figure of his brother. Sam would not understand, just as he didn't understand that letting their Dad go in Chicago was for the best. For all of his experiences in his twenty two years, Sam was naive to the sacrifices one had to be willing to make to protect the ones you loved.

To Dean, sacrificing was a hardwired response, it was Option A before he even contemplated an Option B. It wasn't even a difficult conclusion to make. His life verses Sam's, verses his Dad's, verses…well anyone else's…long ago he had forgotten that there was even another viable equation. And yet, when no life hung in the balance but his own, his will to live rivaled the best of them. How many times had his stubborn refusal to die, to admit defeat to whatever evil he hunted, allowed him to escape the cold grasping unmerciful hands of death? He had lost count before he had even become a teenager.

Today he needed to engineer that escape again. Knew in his gut, that it would take everything he had to survive to see the sun go down, to win this war again. A war he needed to wage alone. He was nearly over the room's threshold when Sam's voice stopped him cold.

"Dean," Sam growled, his voice suspiciously void of the hue of sleep, "Where do you think you're going!"

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Chapter 1: Off to a Bad Start

Frustration and desperation vibrated through Dean Winchester, Sam's intense inspection of him across the diner's Formica table only tacking his ire higher. Though Dean had envisioned many scenarios for the start of this particular day, Sam had not figured into any of them. But Sam had given Dean little choice. Having sabotaged Dean's early morning escape by surging from his bed, Sam, since then, had been displaying the loyalty tendencies of a family pooch, refusing to leave Dean's side all the while seething. '_Now Sam decides to play the loyal brother! Just freakin' great!_' Dean internally growled.

Leaning across the table, nailing his silent brother with a demanding glare, Sam hissed, a concession to their fellow breakfast crowd that it didn't come out as a shout, "Where were you going this morning, Dean?" Watching Dean's jaw clench, Sam recognized the break in his brother's stoicism that had fallen two days ago. "Where were you going, Dean!" Sam's repeated, his voice raising a notch. Dean's eyes unflinchingly met his own, mocking Sam for believing that Dean's baby brother could _make_ him talk.

"Fine," Sam conceded, leaning back in his seat as if he didn't have a care in the world, setting his focus on the menu he hadn't even realized the hostess had provided. Concentrating on the menu, however, was another task entirely. Blueberry Pancakes topped with…_why was he leaving? Why wasn't he taking me along? Where was he headed? No!_ He brought his mind back on track…food, menu..breakfast. Eggs with a side of meat and homefr…Sam slammed the menu on the table, the metal corners making a loud enough sound in the 6am crowd to garner attention.

Oblivious to the stares of the other diner patrons, Sam sought out his brother's face only to be met with the sight of the lunch side of the menu. Reaching a long arm over the table, he ripped the menu from his brother's hands, earning him an exasperated look from Dean. "You were just gonna leave!" Sam accused, his tone a bit louder than he intended.

As if he was reassuring a child, Dean calmly began, "Sam, Dude I was just taking my bag…"

"No!" Sam cut him off, a new fire in his eyes. "I woke up to find you half way out the door."

"Like I said then, I needed .."

"To pack the car? To take a walk? To get coffee?" Sam scoffed, then lowered his voice, his eyes turning dark with worry. "I saw that look in your eyes, Dean."

"Yeah," Dean drawled as a taunt. "What look?"

Sam swallowed. Looking away to the other diners, he wished, not for the first time that he had their lives instead of his, lives that weren't terrorized by the real threat of losing everyone he loved.

"Come on , Sammy. What look was I wearing? The Clint Eastwood, "go ahead, make my day punk" look? The Arnold Swartz.." Dean's words caught in his throat when Sam's brittle gaze hit him, anguish pouring out of his brother's brown eyes.

"Like you weren't coming back," the words were like gasps of air from starving lungs. Sam wanted to look away, to not see his brother's reaction to his fear or worse, to see confirmation in Dean's eyes. However, Sam found that he couldn't tear his look from his brother, from the precious thing that seemed likely to slip from his fingers if he didn't keep up his guard.

"Huh," Dean said almost in contemplation before the other words slipped past his brain's better judgment. "Musta been the same look you had when you left for Stanford." Regret and some sick satisfaction seared through Dean as Sam paled, swallowed and dropped his eyes to the menu on the table. '_Great, this is just great. As if today's not going to be bad enough but now I just added emotional bad karma to the tally…and hurt Sam on top of it all._' He was about to open his mouth, to say what he didn't have a clue but their waitress had finally decided to make an appearance. '_Perfect timing, Flo', _ Dean thought disdainfully as he looked up to the fifty something year old waitress, a tight smile on his face.

"Coffee?" she grunted out, her features set in a contorted grimace that age alone could not be the culprit for.

'_No, a freakin' smoothie! Yeah, Coffee_!' Dean wanted to shout but Sam's quiet, "Yes, please," earned the waitress' attention, that being what it was and she poured the black liquid into the cup in front of Sam. Then she pointedly looked to Dean, a scold in her eyes that he hadn't yet answered her grunt. '_Oh, I'ld love to give you my answer_,' Dean ranted but outwardly gave a nod.

But the coffee never made it into his cup. Just as the waitress was tipping the coffee pot, a burly man tried to slip between the row of counter seats and the waitress. He had almost made it clear when one of the truck drivers decided to swing off their counter seat in front of the man. It was like a chain reaction. The burly man tried to stumble to a halt, ended up tilting to the left, bodily impacted with the waitress, knocking her forward a pace or two and causing her arm to swing wildly. Pain seared into Dean as the "just made a minute ago" coffee splattered on his right hand and across his arm.

Reflexively, Dean pulled his arm back but it was too late, the nearly boiling liquid had already damaged his first layer of skin. Clenching his teeth, he gripped his arm against his chest, the pain intensifying as time passed. '_So it begins_,' he thought, unable to adopt an attitude to offer up a taunt of '_Bring it on_!'

Sam knew how quickly things happened in life, how things went from happy to sad and good to bad. His whole life he had tried to gear himself for the whims of fate. Fate he was armed to fight. Accidents, they took his breath away. He had watched, seemingly in slow motion, the comedy of errors, the man, the trucker, the waitress and finally the climax, the coffee blazing into Dean's bare arm and hand. For all his sharp reflexes, honed instincts, Sam just sat there, stunned as his brother got hurt.

Breaking from his daze, Sam cursed, identifying the pain in his brother's face by the set of his jaw, the narrowing of his eyes. Frantically, he sought to help Dean, only to find that his first aid resources were limited. There was no freakin' water even on the table and the butter came in those tiny quarter-sized containers. "Water! Get some water or ice and some butter!" he shouted to the waitress, fully prepared to push the stunned waitress aside, run to the car and retrieve the burn cream they still had left over from Dean's last burn experience with the Benders.

With unexpected speed, the waitress stepped to the right, into Sam's planned path, deftly grabbed two glasses of water from the other table and promptly doused Dean's arm and hand with the liquid. "Sal we have a burn! Get the butter!" she called over her shoulder. Resettling her look on the now wet Dean, she cooed, "I'm so sorry, hun! You're gonna be alright. I've burned myself a fair amount of times to know how it hurts but the skin, it'll grow back good as new in a few weeks." Unexpectedly, the waitress had morphed from the hard grumpy waitress who hated her life and everyone who dared to traipse into it into a doting mother.

It would have been comical if it wasn't so heartbreaking. Dean sitting there, water soaking the bottom of his shirt and his jeans, a waitress soothing him like he was a vulnerable child. Sam would have choked back a laugh if he wasn't so close to crying. And for the life of him, he didn't understand why this accident was breaking him down in more ways than Dean's heart trouble had.

A white bearded man wearing an apron and baring more tattoos than un-inked skin, pushed past the waitress and smeared a stick of butter on Dean's burned flesh like it was corn on the cob, gentle, slow, precise. "Maggie, go get some Tylenol," he ordered and the waitress scurried hurriedly through the kitchen door.

Trying to shake loose his stunned surprise at the compassion of these strangers and marshal the pain, Dean offered, "I'm Ok," his voice sounding tight with pain even to his own ears. He didn't dare look to Sam, not yet ready to see the younger man's anger at his lie, his newest lie.

The man gave a chuckle, not of mirth but surprised respect as he smiled at Dean. "Oh, you're a tough one. I used to be one too, took wounds in the war like they were metals. Now I complain and wail about a little arthritis." When the cook lifted the butter to inspect his handiwork, Sam leaned forward, dreading the sight even as he needed to see the hurt his brother had sustained. Underneath the smeared butter, Sam could just make out the rough unnatural texture of his brother's arm, what lay protected under the layer of epidermis skin exposed. "Looks like a first degree burn," the cook gently diagnosed, "had enough in my career to know." Then he looked up and studied Dean's eyes, "Pain any better?"

"Yeah," Dean replied and it was even the truth, the old time remedy of butter doing its thing. "Thanks," he sincerely said.

Arriving at the cook's side, the waitress was already shaking out some of the pain pills into her palm. Offering Dean the three pills from her hand, she fell back into her apologies, her voice cracking and nearly shattering apart. "I really am so sorry, hun! I'll pay your doctor bills …or…well you can sue me. It'd be your right. I ..I ain't got much but I owe you…".

Dean kindly interrupted her, his eyes holding hers, making sure his words hit home. "It wasn't your fault. I don't blame you."

Sam recognized his brother's tone, the reassuring and firm timbre that Dean used with victims of the supernatural who thought they were somehow at fault for something they would never understand. Confusion and resentment flared in Sam. This was NOT some blameless event, sure it was an accident but it had still been the waitress's fault. And he was not feeling as forgiving as Dean was, not when his brother sat over there in pain.

Tears sprang to the waitress's eyes at Dean's forgiveness. "Thank you. Thank you for …for understanding. I …I just feel so bad about it."

"It's alright," Dean soothed, pulling one of his charming smiles onto his face as he loosened his death grip on the injured wrist. "It's not bad really, just hurt at first but it's feeling better," he lied, forcing himself to move the arm from his chest and down to his side. The cook's expression was both censorious and grateful, appreciating the younger man's deception even as he reprimanded it but he remained silent. "I don't even need to see a doctor ."

'_You mean **won't** see a doctor_!' Sam scoffed, clenching his jaw to prevent himself from interfering so hard that it ached. '_At least take the pain pills, Dean. Have some common sense!'_

Continuing to ooze his charm, Dean joked, "But I will have to change my clothing. I like the smell of coffee..just not as a cologne."

The waitress couldn't help breaking into laughter, her frayed nerves eased at the release, just like Dean intended. Sam watched the exchange with wonder and pride. That was Dean, always worried about someone else's wellbeing before his own. It took Sam a moment to realize that Dean was moving out of the booth, making good on his escape from the scene of the "no fault" accident. Hurriedly, Sam got to his feet, raising a hand toward Dean as if he would aid him but he dropped it immediately as Dean's eyes flared into his. '_Right, I'm not supposed to do anything to uncover his "doesn't hurt' scam he's doing on the waitress so she can sleep that night, free of guilt. But what I worry about is, how's Dean gonna sleep tonight with his arm throbbing in pain, especially since the fool is walking out of here without taking any of those pills!'_

"I really am sorry," the waitress said again.

As he made to walk past her, Dean reached out with his uninjured hand and reassuringly squeezed her trembling hand. "I'm fine. Accidents happen, no one's at fault. Understand?" Dean said in his gentlest tones, his green eyes searching the waitress's expression for agreement. When she gave a nod, he smiled, squeezed her hand and slipped past her and Sam before either one could anticipate it.

Sam nearly bounded across the diner to catch up with Dean, again his hand almost reaching for Dean's elbow to aid him but he forced himself to refrain from the protective action. Shouldering his way out the door, Dean stood a moment, soaking up the sunlight that was just starting to stream its way between the buildings of the city.

"How bad is the pain, really?" Sam worriedly asked as he joined Dean on the sidewalk.

"It's basically a sunburn, dude. Don't go all Clara Barton on me too," Dean retorted, his eyes still focused on the horizon.

"Yeah, sunburn…if you lived on Neptune," Sam mumbled, studying his brother's profile, surprised to not be the audience for an angry tirade about sucky luck. "Come on, let's get a motel in town."

"One outta town," Dean countered instantly, firmly, not looking at Sam as he headed to the Impala with purpose.

Slipping by his brother to reach the Impala's driver's side first, Sam swung around to see that Dean was complacently making his way to the passenger side. His mad rush for the door, his fighting stance, his ready words of protest seemed stupid as Dean sank into the passenger's seat as if the thought of trying to drive never crossed his mind. Quickly getting into the car, Sam watched as Dean drew the car door shut with his left hand and settled back onto the seat, a far away look on his face as he stared blankly out of the windshield. All of this complacency from Dean had alarms going off in Sam's head, making him wonder just how seriously his brother was hurt after all. "No, Dean. We're taking a motel in town, close, as close as we can get. I need to see to your arm."

"No, it's good Sam. It's all buttered up, looking good. Feeling fine," Dean reassured, finally looking to Sam, bearing a smile of bravado.

"Sure, Dean," Sam patronized, started the Impala's growling engine and backed out of the parking space. Before he put the car onto the street, he shot Dean a smile, "Lucky for you we're overstocked on burn cream," his taunt concealing the way his gut was churning at seeing Dean baring yet another burn.

"Great, I wanted to get my money out of that burn cream," Dean sarcastically drawled.

Forcing the smile to remain on his face, Sam sent the Impala streaking down the city street, already on the lookout for a motel. When silence lingered in the car, he spared a glance to Dean. The older man was looking out the side window like his favorite movie was playing. '_Standard avoidance technique'_, Sam surmised and felt his shoulders tense as he remembered his brother's tactics to slip away from him that morning. It would be unfair to press Dean now, injured, in pain, vulnerable…liable to let something slip. "I thought we worked this out," Sam began quietly, trying to bury his emotions in a monotone.

Turning to Sam with a raised eyebrow, Dean scoffed, "Is this one of those conversations that you started in your head, Sam? Work out what?"

Sam didn't dare meet Dean's look. "That if you wanted time alone, all you had to do was ask."

A scowl marred Dean's face. Sam made it sound so simple and without repercussions, short term or long term. '_Yeah right_,' Dean bitterly disagreed. '_Sure, Sam. I would just say to you, 'Hey dude I need some space for two days, you cool with that? Oh and by the way, if I don't come back, don't bother sending out the search party. And don't do that whole guilt thing cause there was nothing you could have done, or even anything I wanted you to do.' Yeah, simple, easy. Why didn't I think of it!'_

When a response did not come back from Dean, Sam whipped his head around to look to his brother, worry pouring off of him. Immediately Dean looked away, their brotherly trait of making eye contact now appearing insufferable to him. That sent a pang of pain through Sam. '_Oh, crap! What did I do to push him away? Why can't he even look at me!' _"Dean," Sam's voice was a plea, "tell me what's going on, what I did."

"Geez, Sam! It's not all about you!" Dean exploded, his focus never leaving the windshield. "Motel on the right! Turn!"

Rattled at his brother's outburst and started at the quick order to turn into the motel, Sam jerked the wheel to the right, **way** too soon and nearly side swiped a parked car, frantically veered away almost clipping a bicyclist cutting through traffic. Then, seeing the opening in the sidewalk that was the motel entrance that he was nearly past, he made an unmercifully sharp turn to the right, running over the curb and getting the Impala airborne. It touched down in the motel parking lot with a jolt and as Sam slammed the car to a halt, Dean had to brace his hands, both of them, against the dashboard to avoid cracking his skull on the windshield.

They sat there in silence for a few moments, Sam breathing hard, Dean fisting his injured hand in his shirt. Simultaneous they looked at one another. Dean's sputtering laughter was the last response Sam had expected.

At Sam's worried, scared look, Dean laughed harder, his stomach beginning to hurt. "Your face…" he wheezed out between his laughter, " the bicyclist's face…the old homeless guy sitting on the street corner…" he couldn't draw in any more breath and leaned back heavily on the seat, laughing so hard tears were rolling down his face.

A small start of laughter broke free from Sam's tight chest, but it was the gleam in his eyes that spoke the most. Suddenly he felt ridiculously happy to hear Dean's laughter, a rare thing, a precious thing. Catching sight of Dean's buttered up arm, Sam's mirth faded. "It's still early in the morning and it's already been a bad day," Sam sighed, resting his head back on the seat, his head still turned to face Dean.

"Yeah," Dean drawled, sobered instantly, the weight of the one word filling the car. "Check us in Sammy. The smell of this butter is making me wanna hurl."

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To Sam's relief, the burn really wasn't that bad. Of course that didn't mean it didn't hurt like crazy, not like Dean would ever admit to a silly little thing like being in pain. Even Dean's face was schooled into impassiveness as he sat on the motel bed, leaning against the headboard, remote control to the tv in his hand, hair still wet from his shower. Effectively he ignored Sam's outstretched hand bearing two pain pills.

"Take 'em Dean," Sam growled, feeling his limbs tremble with anger as he stood beside his brother's bed.

"Which part of "**no**" do you not understand, Sammy?" Dean said, lancing his granite look into Sam. "Now go run along and play in the city but be home before dawn."

Sam closed his fist on the pills not in anger now but disregard and shifted on his feet. "Ok, so it's not about me then what is it about?" To Sam's surprise, Dean flicked off the tv, came off the bed on the other side and headed for the door. Instantly Sam trailed behind him, absently pulling the room door shut behind him. "I'm not letting this go, Dean," Sam warned dodging his brother's steps as Dean walked through the outside hallway and began making his way down the two flights of stairs. A whistle pierced the air, without warning, Sam felt something whoosh by him on the stairs then another whoosh. Then, in front of him, he saw the two Great Dane dogs playfully snapping at each other, racing for the bottom of the stairs, unmindful of the obstacle in their path, namely Dean.

Opening his mouth to give a call of warning, Sam knew he was too late. The dogs bowled into Dean, taking his legs out from under him and worse still, knocking him to the side, right over the railing.

TBC

I would love to hear your thoughts on this story!

Thanks for reading!

Cheryl W.


	2. Chapter 2: Underhanded Tactics

Sanctuary

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

**Author's Note**: The medical procedures/knowledge in this story is pure hogwash. Do not test it out on your younger siblings! I simply picked from old wives' tales, some medical jargon I learned from tv and what I felt would be fun to have Dean or Sam endure. (I nearly pass out just watching medical shows these days but somehow seeing Dean hurt doesn't upset me, turn my stomach or make me cringe…I seem to enjoy it. Maybe I should look into getting the "other" type of medical assistance!)

Thanks so much for the awesome response to chapter 1! Getting so much feedback was wonderful!

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Chapter 2: Underhanded Tactics

"Dean!" Sam screamed, frantically looking over the railing, watching as Dean made a grab for the railing, his fingers catching a moment but slipping free as his body obeyed the rules of gravity. Dean, like a big cat, landed in a crouch but the shock of the impact sent him teetering backwards to end up on his butt.

Scrambling down the stairs as fast as he could, Sam ran to Dean's side, dropping to his knees, breathing hard again, his hands already inspecting Dean's ankles for injury. "You hurt? Your ankles, they OK?"

"What hurts is my butt," Dean whined, a hand going to rub at his backside.

"Is it.." Sam began in earnest worry but Dean scoffed, "No, Sam. My butt's not broken! Now help me up," he ordered, putting his hand out.

Without hesitation, Sam put his hand in Dean's and together they climbed to their feet. Immediately, Dean pulled his hand clear of Sam's. His other hand continuing to rub his injured body part, he began to make slow progress toward the street.

Angrily, Sam scanned the parking lot for the dogs, more specifically for the owner of the dogs. "They could have killed you," he fumed, seeing the sight of a dog tail a moment before a man closed the back of a blue Blazer. He had taken two steps toward the Blazer before Dean's hand latched onto his arm, yanking him to a stop.

"Let it go," Dean ordered, giving Sam's arm a squeeze to earn him Sam's eye contact.

"He's responsible for his dogs!" Sam argued, the knowledge of how badly the mishap could have ended making him ill.

"It's not his fault," Dean insisted, yanking Sam forward to match his stride as he headed out of the parking lot of the motel.

"Not his fault! Is that your new motto!" Sam groused, too angry to realize Dean was clutching onto his arm, leading him away like a misbehaving child. "You told the waitress it wasn't her fault, now this guy you let off without even getting in his face! You take a Gandhi pill this morning or something!"

"Gandhi pill?" Dean quirked an eyebrow and a smirk emerged on his face. Now that his brother was willingly matching his stride, he released his hold on Sam.

Sam's face turned pink with embarrassment at his brother's teasing, then, with a rueful shake of his head, he gave a self mocking bark of laughter. "Just great…now I'm starting to talk like you," he drawled, tension easing from his shoulders as he found himself walking shoulder to shoulder with his older brother in the city. "Next thing you know I'll be singing along with Metallica."

"Worse things could happen," Dean replied, but his voice wasn't light as Sam's had been and he was again avoiding Sam's eyes.

They walked in silence for a few blocks, taking in the sights and sounds of an urban Saturday morning. At the first crossing, intending to walk across the street when the way was clear regardless that the pedestrian light indicated 'do not walk', Sam stumbled when his brother's hand gripped the back of his shirt at his neck, preventing him from leaving the sidewalk. When and only when the "walk" sign flashed invitingly, did Dean venture into the street, and Sam, stunned, found himself needing to take a few steps to catch up.

Sam felt surprise and suspicion wash over him at Dean's sudden affinity to obey the walk signs in crossing the streets. None of it was normal Dean behavior. Not the law-abiding, not the calmness at the two freakish accidents that day, not the quiet that permeated the air between them and certainly not his brother's scheme to slip away from him at dawn. It took one more instance for Sam to put the pieces together. By that time it was almost too late.

It happened so fast, just like the coffee and the dogs. One minute they were enjoying their stroll and the next, Dean, acting on instincts honed to a life of danger, jerked to a stop as if he had noticed acid lying just behind his big toe, his left arm flinging out, halting Sam's forward motion as well. In a blinking of an eye, a paint can impacted with the cement, splashing Dean with paint and peppering his legs with shards of the now shattered section of the sidewalk.

Sam, his eyes flying upward, saw, for the first time, the painters' scaffolding positioned ten stories up the skyscraper. Three anxious looking painters stared down at them in horror. "You guys alright?" came an urgent call.

'_Hell no!_' Sam opened his mouth to answer but again Dean was offering amnesty.

"We're alright. Sidewalk's not though," Dean called up, ignoring the paint marring his clothing, the stinging pain in his legs and the tension blazing off of Sam. Having moments prior already determined that Sam was unscathed by the incident, even by a drop of paint, Dean returned his look to Sam. Worry assaulted him as he noted how pale Sam appeared. Gripping his brother's shoulders, he gently asked, "Hey, Sam you aren't hurt, right? You didn't get hit by anything?"

"Yeah, I did. By a revelation," Sam said dangerously, shoving Dean's hands from his shoulder only to latch his own hand around Dean's elbow. Now it was his turn to drag Dean along like a mischievous boy, his pace was slow, heedful of his brother's injured legs. Once Sam determined that they were safely out of range of any more accidents from the morons overhead, he ordered, "Sit down," half with concern and half with frustrated anger.

"What? Here? On the sidewalk? " Dean protested, taking in the surrounding neighborhood warily, noting that no benches were in sight.

"Yeah, here, now," Sam used his best authoritative tone he possessed.

Grumbling, Dean complied, trying to shrug off Sam's help but that too was a lost cause. Finding himself sitting on the sidewalk like some homeless beggar, his knees drawn up to his chest, Dean glared at Sam who was crouched down in front of him, his focus solely on the shards of cement embedded in his brother's shins. When Sam reached for a protruding shard, Dean slapped his hand away. "I got this, Sam," ruthlessly yanking the plaster free, tossing the offending material to the sidewalk causing it to shatter more thoroughly on the ground.

Leaning forward, trying to see the next piece to be removed, Dean's actions were preempted by Sam's quick fingers yanking a shard free. "Easy," Dean stiffened, shooting Sam a reprimanding look.

"Easy," Sam repeated a dangerous edge to his voice, pulling another large shard loose. "Easy. Right." Removing the final protruding shard loose, he grimaced at the other tears in his brother's jeans that indicated smaller shards lay buried in Dean's legs. His eyes taking in Dean's every facial reaction, Sam asked, "Can you walk?" his concern and the gentleness of his tone catching Dean off guard.

'_Yeah that's his best tactic, make me off guard with his soft tone, then wham, hit me over the head with some yelling lecture._ _Well, I'm not falling for it today. Not today!' _Dean resolved. Before Sam could even register the move, Dean used the wall behind him to support him as he gained his feet. However, it was a short victory as Sam surged to his feet, intentionally blocking his path.

"Ok, what is it?" Sam demanded, his taut stance saying what his eyes were: Dean was going nowhere without giving him an answer. "A spell? Some kind of jinx? A curse? What?"

"Sam," Dean began in his most patient, 'you are so wrong' tone.

Sam's outburst cut off Dean's words. "Don't tell me I'm wrong, that I'm imagining it! Dean, you've been hurt three times already today and it's …what?" he consulted his watch, "not even nine o'clock in the morning!"

Pulling on his best, I'm still in control tone, Dean confessed glibly, "What can I say, Sammy, I'm having a bad day."

Dean's nonchalant response pushed Sam's fraying nerves too far. Without intention, Sam found himself fisting Dean's shirt in his hands, tightly, like he wasn't going to let go, ever. "A bad day is when things don't go as you planned," Sam hissed, his breath whooshing into his brother's face, their eyes blazing into each other. "This…" Sam swallowed, nervously, like saying it out loud, stating what his gut was telling him would somehow make it true, make it worse. Pushing himself beyond his superstitions, Sam classified without any misgivings, "**This** is something worse."

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The Sam that Dean had encountered in the asylum, the one that had unloaded a shotgun of rock salt into his chest, the one that did his best to put a bullet, or three, into his chest, that Sam was a pussy cat compared to the Sam Dean now encountered. '_Maybe silence wasn't my best way to go'_ Dean considered, watching Sam pace back and forth in front of him as he sat on the bed, shooting him glares that resembled solar flares from the sun.

Having tended to his own leg injuries, (not wanting to take the chance that, Sam, in his anger, might decide that an amputation was the viable solution), and wearing a fresh set of clothing consisting of jeans, t-shirt, button down shirt and a jacket, Dean rolled his shoulders to ease some of the tension humming through his body. But, resolutely, he did not break his code of silence. No reason to abandon his fine plan just because it wasn't working out the way he anticipated.

Fury and fear swamped Sam in nearly equal measure. Dean's refusal to answer his question, to tell him what was going on, spoke of a magnitude of trouble that kindled a fire in Sam's gut like few things could. Coming to a stop in front of the seated Dean, Sam, put his hands on his hips. "I can't believe you! You're just going to sit there…say nothing!"

Conjuring up his best bored expression, Dean tilted his head up to steadily meet Sam's blazing glare, daring his brother to try and make him talk. Who did Sam think he was dealing with here! Keeping secrets was as easy for Dean as breathing! '_But not from Sam', _Dean disputed his self-assurance. '_Keeping secrets from Sam is different, harder, dishonorable, like a betrayal…even when it is for Sam's own good. Like now.'_

Seeing the bold confidence on Dean's features, Sam knew his thick headed brother had every intention of playing it silent, of trying to handle whatever problem he was having today all on his own. Painfully, Sam vividly remembered the last time Dean had stubbornly gone silent: after the asylum. '_I can't deal with that again, him shutting me out, not meeting my eyes, hurting and pretending he wasn't. And worse yet, him thinking his pain didn't hurt me, that instead I got some sick satisfaction from it?' _

Wracking his brain for a way to break through Dean's barriers, Sam, with divine inspiration, saw their father's journal peeking out of Dean's bag on the bed. Leaning over, Sam pulled the journal free from the bag. "What's happening to you today, is it in here!" he demanded, beginning to roughly flip through the pages, his eyes cursorily scanning his father's handwriting. "Are we talking about a jinx, a curse, a spell forcing you to be a stupid stubborn jerk that would rather stick to his pride than tell me what's going on today?" letting his eyes float up to Dean's on that one.

Sam's dig almost got a rise out of Dean, he even opened his mouth to retort back but Sam's hopeful look had him clamping it shut. Sam looked so _young_ wearing that expression, emanating that "all things are possible" optimism the naïve still claimed. "You're not going to find anything in there, Sammy," he callously dashed Sam's hope, coming off the bed, he slipped past Sam and headed for the room door. The sound of ripping paper was equivalent to gunfire to Dean, causing him to spin around, shock in his eyes.

Holding the ripped page from the journal in his right hand like it was a grenade he was threatening to pull the pin from, Sam watched the shocked, pained expression break out onto his brother's suddenly expressive face. _Gotcha_, he thought with giddy relief, feeling no guilt or remorse for his tactics if it had the power to keep Dean with him, to make him talk to him, even if it was in all curse words.

"Sam, what the .."Dean exploded, starting to cross the room but stopped as his baby brother's trap became clear. Narrowing his eyes, he clenched his jaw as Sam crumpled the journal page with relish.

Seeing his plan's failure rate sky rocket, Sam felt his anger and frustration boil over. Viciously, he threw the crumbled journal page at Dean, hitting him in the chest. Like the loud snap of detaching a check from a checkbook during a Sunday prayer, Sam with deliberate slowness, ripped another page free, his eyes focused on Dean, watching his brother's jaw clench and his eyes become a simmering sea of green. Crumpling the second page, Sam nailed his brother on the cheek with that missile. A long suffering look entered Dean's eyes and Sam knew Dean's next move would be to walk out the door.

Upping the ante, Sam withdrew his lighter, flicked a flame to life and held it under the journal. Before Sam was ready, Dean was there, latching onto the journal, trying to wrestle it away from Sam and the flame that started to blacken the bottom edges.

"Sam, what are you doing!" Dean growled, doing his best to rescue the journal from Sam's grasp but the younger man's height was working against him.

Not wanting to add a fire to the disasters of the day, Sam flicked shut his lighter and used his free hand to press against Dean's chest to keep the older man away. Finding that he was unable to maneuver Dean back even a pace, Sam, with desperate strength, managed to pull the journal from his brother's grasp. Turning his back on Dean, he held the journal over his head, thanking God for his long arms as Dean's grabs for the journal fell short. Sam couldn't number the times he and Dean had played keep away as kids, mostly with Dean being the taller of the two boys. But their game had always escalated, their fighting skills too much a part of them to not utilize. This time was no different. One minute Dean was vainly trying to out grasp Sam's long arms while he tried to shove and shoulder Sam around to face him and the next, Sam found his legs knocked out from under him. Before he could react, he was falling face first onto the bed.

Solidly impacting with the bed, air whooshed out of Sam, especially when Dean landed half on top of him, his hands searching for the journal now pinned under Sam's body. Latching tightly onto the journal with both hands and clutching it to his chest even as Dean tried to slide it out from him, Sam exclaimed angrily, "What good is this stupid journal if it tells me how to save other people but not you! It didn't help with your heart thing, it didn't help with the Benders and it's NOT helping today!" his voice cracking with emotion, causing Dean's hands to still.

Sam's words, the break in his brother's voice that telegraphed Sam's fear, struck Dean where he was most vulnerable: in his heart. Releasing his hold on the journal, he rolled off of Sam and laid on his back, breathing hard, his blank stare on the cracked water stained ceiling.

Continuing to lay on his stomach on the bed, Sam turned his head to fix on Dean's profile. Quietly Sam revealed, his tone hued with sad apprehension, "All this journal does is put you in danger. It taunts you with hundreds of evils out there that you think _you_ have to defeat. And it provides you with a million ways to sacrifice yourself for the "_greater good_."" Sam saw Dean visibly swallow but he did not speak or look to him. Pushing himself to a seated position, Sam sat Indian style by Dean's hip, watching his brother's face intently. "But it can't tell me what I want to know."

Rolling his head so that his eyes met Sam's straight on, Dean sighed, hating himself for crumbling under the presence of Sam's anguish like he always did. "And what's that?"

Quietly Sam answered, "It can't tell me why my own brother won't talk to me, won't tell me what's happening to him today."

Turning his focus again to the ceiling, Dean resumed his vow of silence. '_Keep your pie hole shut, Dean!'_ he threatened himself, tightly clenching his jaw, resolved to not let words spring from his vocal cords.

Having his appeal for Dean to open up denied, Sam let his eyes drop to the journal in his hands. "So tell me why I shouldn't put a match to this thing?" he asked without rancor but with sad conclusion, like he was talking about putting down a family dog that had begun to bite the hand of his master. When Dean's eyes shifted to him, sparkling with righteous anger, Sam sharply clarified, "I'm not talking about Dad's reasons, Dean." Sam's eyes gentled, his tone begging for Dean's trust, "It's just you and me here. What's this book mean to you, Dean?"

Sam's question blindsided Dean and it showed in his usually unreadable face. '_Crap, Sam! Why can't you just stick to demanding what was happening today?_' Rolling his head, Dean again sought the safer realm of contemplating the ceiling, his heart pounding in his ears, worried that Sam somehow could pick the answer to his question from his brain. He didn't have to look at Sam to feel the younger man's eyes unflinchingly fastened on his face, waiting, hoping, wanting. Against his better judgment, Dean flicked his eyes to Sam and cursed himself bitterly as his brother's face telegraphed his torment. That broke down Dean's barriers, like it always did.

Again Dean looked to the ceiling, his hard swallow causing Sam to tense and prepare for the confession he knew he had manipulated from his brother. Wrestling with his thoughts, Dean contemplated the lesser of two evils: answer Sam's question about today or answer Sam's question about the journal? Side stepping Sam's journal question would be easy. All he had to do was tell Sam what was happening today. Then the question that now hung in the air would be discarded, forgotten, would remain unanswered, forever maybe.

"Dean," Sam's quiet plea made Dean clamp his eyes shut. With brutal honesty, he realized that he didn't have a choice between two evils, not when they both seemed to cause Sam pain.

Meeting Sam's beseeching eyes, Dean breathed, "That journal's my life, Sam." As soon as the words were out of Dean's mouth, Sam's eyes widen, a fire of protest burning in their depths. Instantly Dean knew he had misspoken his confession. "No! I didn't mean it like that!" he growled, with exasperation and a reprimand for Sam's misinterpretation of his words. Sitting up, Dean situated his back against the headboard. "Even I'm not that pathetic, Sam!" his anger causing Sam to flinch. Or was the flinch in direct reaction to the word "pathetic" that had taken such a nasty personal meaning since the asylum? Dean wasn't sure.

Silently the two brothers stared at each other, not in a contest of wills but a survey of emotions, both fearing a misstep now could push one or both off the raft that kept them afloat.

Unable to let Dean's confession stand unexplained, Sam was the first to break the silence. "Then explain it to me, Dean."

Sam's voice was gentle, too gentle for Dean's liking, too caring, too accepting, too fragile. Suddenly Dean found his hands in his lap a fascinating distraction. Sam almost jumped when Dean quietly began to speak.

"I'm never going to have a college degree.." instantly Dean's eyes flew up to Sam and he held a hand up to stop Sam's protest or pep talk or whatever reaction his brother was about to unleash. "I'm not saying that to get pity or saying I wanted that…needed that," he qualified, satisfied when Sam settled back into his 'I'm listening to you' pose. "And I'm not going to be on the Fortune 500 list or on the Miami Dolphins' roster, or…even gather at some class reunion and reminisce with some old buddies about pranks we played on the teachers," a sad light coming into his eyes as a small smirk pulled on his lips. Again he reacted to Sam's objecting look, "Dead guys don't get invited to class reunions, Sam," he reminded, cursing himself as the anguish in Sam's eyes deepened.

Clearing his throat against his own emotions, Dean let his eyes fall on the journal held loosely in Sam's hands. Pointing to the journal, his eyes connected solidly with Sam's, making both men feel like their souls were exposed in that moment. Dean's voice was hoarse and low. "But that journal, those entries that mention my name, they are my proof that I made a difference somewhere, sometime, to someone. And maybe no one will ever read those words, besides you and Dad, but I'll know they exist, that somewhere part of me exists, even after I'm gone. And that's enough for me, Sam. Knowing that I did some good, that somewhere it's tallied even if it's in Dad's crappy Yoda like handwriting." Inexplicably to Dean, Sam looked like he was about to cry.

His teeth clamping into his lower lip, Sam desperately struggled to not break down, to not make this a chick flick scene. '_Damn you, Dean! If you don't like chick flick scenes why do you have to speak so …so passionately, so earnestly, so unguardedly? You fight like you're never going to open up and then you give me everything, all of you! And it feels like you are putting your beating heart in my hands, making it my choice to protect it or crush it.'_

Anxious to break the hold his words seemed to wield over Sam, Dean snatched the journal from Sam's loose hold. Then almost belying his confession of the book's importance, he tossed it carelessly on the other bed.

With disbelief Sam tracked the journal as it arched across the expansion of the beds to land open on the other bed, looking like a tent, its "precious" pages crumpled and bent against the mattress. Shooting Dean a look of long suffering, Sam sighed as Dean gave him an innocent shrug. His brother's confession made the journal more prized than it had ever been before, too prized to risk crumpled pages and a ruined binder.

Crossing to the other bed, Sam leaned over the mattress to retrieve the journal. Nothing prepared him for the shove that spun him around even as it sent him crashing onto his back on the bed. The feel of a handcuff around his right wrist was like an electric shock. His eyes shot up to Dean who wisely took a step back from the bed as Sam yanked on his wrist and discovered the other cuff was attached to the bed's bottom frame.

"Dean, what the hell!" Sam yelled, his brother's tactics unnerving him, turning his insides cold with fear. "Uncuff me! Now!" he ordered, sitting up and finding his leash forced him to lean over to keep his wrist from being disconnected.

TBC

Thank you so much for reading! I would love to hear your thoughts on the story so far!

Cheryl W.


	3. Chapter 3: Confession Under Duress

Sanctuary

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

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Chapter 3: Confession Under Duress

"Dean, what the hell!" Sam yelled, his brother's tactics unnerving him, turning his insides cold with fear. "Uncuff me! Now!" he ordered, sitting up and finding his leash forced him to lean over to keep his wrist from being disconnected.

Taking a few more paces backward to stand in the center of the room, well out of Sam's kicking range, Dean tried to placate his brother. "Sam, just listen to me. This is …"

"Don't you _dare_ say this is for my own good!" Sam snarled, his eyes shooting fire at Dean.

"Fine. Then it's for my own good," Dean amended, causing Sam's fire to dissipate into worry.

"I was right. This isn't just bad luck today is it?" Sam breathed, his heart pounding in his chest.

Digging into his jeans pocket, Dean pulled out a paperclip and held it up for Sam to see. "I'm going to leave this for you. It will take you some time but …"

Sam cut him off, his eyes glittering with frustration, "I'll get free…but too late to stop you from leaving," his accusation strong.

Reading the hurt and fear in his brother's eyes, Dean found he couldn't leave without some explanation, some closure in case…well in case things turned out badly. With gentleness, he tried to make Sam see reason. "Sam, its dangerous enough being with me on a normal basis, but today," his jaw clenched, "today it's deadly. I don't want you hurt. I couldn't bare that?" Then, with a flick of his wrist, he tossed the paperclip onto the floor toward Sam's bed, and turned his back on Sam, heading for the door, knowing he couldn't endure the pleading look in Sam's eyes.

Immediately, Sam leapt for the paperclip, his left hand reaching in vain for the clip that lay inches away. Changing positions, Sam attempted to get the paperclip with his shoe. Even as his foot touched the clip, Sam knew his liberation would come too late, Dean would be gone. "Dean! Don't do this! Please don't do this!" his voice cracking with barely leashed fear and desperation. "Don't leave!" he pleaded, his eyes tearing away from the paperclip to his brother's back as he stood in the open doorway. "Dean, whatever's going on today we can handle it, together."

Dean didn't turn around, knew his resolve would break into a thousand pieces if his brother's beseeching words were reinforced with Sam's pleading eyes. "Sorry, Sam," he apologized, his voice rough as he stepped out the door and began to shut the door behind him.

"You said you wanted me to stay with you, for us to be a family again!" Sam called out, trembling with the knowledge of how close he was to losing Dean. The room door stopped closing right before it latched shut, obscuring Sam's view of Dean. "I'm right here, Dean. I'm not the one walking away, it's you! You're the one walking out on me, on our family!"

Sam's words cut into Dean's soul like a scalpel. He could not deny his brother's accusation and yet how much did the truth matter weighed against keeping Sam safe. What was a little betrayal to keep the ones he loved alive! He had let his Dad go to keep him safe, could he do any less for Sam?

Watching as the door started to close completely, Sam hung his head, murmuring, "I don't want a bodyguard, Dean. I want _my brother_. Why can't you see that?" The sound of the door clicking shut was like a spike through Sam's heart. Shaking himself free of his despair, he quickly worked to maneuver the paperclip across the carpet into his hands then deftly picked the handcuff.

Cursing his slowness, Sam burst out the door, bracing himself for the sight of the empty parking spot where the Impala had been. Shock went through him as he saw the Impala still in its parking spot. With his eyes scanning the parking lot below for sight of his brother, he turned right toward the stairs at a run.

"That was pretty slow, Sammy," came Dean's voice behind him, causing Sam to spin around, a big smile on his face.

"Dean!" Sam exclaimed in joyous relief at the sight of his brother leaning nonchalantly on the wall to the left of their doorway. Quickly he crossed the distance between them.

Seeing the look in Sam's eyes, Dean abandoned his slouched position against the wall and warned, "You're not going to hug me or anything?"  
"No," Sam growled before he fisted his hands into Dean's shirt and shoved Dean through the still open room door. Roughly, Sam pushed Dean onto the bed, eliciting a groan from Dean as his abused body impacted solidly with the uncompromising hardness of the mattress.

"Watch it, Sammy! I'm damaged goods right now," Dean scoffed, wincing as he sat up on the bed, clutching his burned arm.

"Damaged in the head you mean!" Sam insulted, standing over the seated Dean. "I can't believe you did that, you stupid jerk!"

"Sam …" Dean began but Sam never let him continue.

"Don't you ever listen to me?" Sam accused, his voice rising with his emotions. "I told you I'ld die for you! I told you I'ld do anything for you! What part of that made you think I'ld be anyplace but at your side if you were in danger!"

"Sam I knew you would want to help me…"

"Are you too proud to get my help? To let me protect you! You protected Dad by letting him go…" he broke off, light of understanding coming to his eyes as Dean dropped his gaze to the carpet. "And you were doing the same thing for me, weren't you?" Sam quietly realized, sinking down to sit beside Dean.

Silence fell between the brothers and Dean refused to be the one to break it. Or to make eye contact or to totally abandon his earlier plan devised to keep Sam safe. He almost flinched when Sam spoke.

"I told you about my visions," Sam stated firmly, without accusation… …so far. Looking to Dean's profile, he could read the comprehension in Dean's tightening features. "I told you about what happened at Max's place."

"Ah Sam," Dean whined, knowing the point his brother was making.

Leaning closer to Dean, Sam put the icing on the cake. "I confided in you about all that…that crazy, freaky, terrifying stuff because I _trusted_ you."

"This is not about trust, Sam!" Dean objected, coming to his feet, unwilling to concede the issue.

"Yes, yes it is," Sam objected, his eyes flaring up to Dean's. "I've put my life, my sanity into your hands Dean so many times in so many ways…"

"Stop! Alright just stop!" Dean interrupted, his eyes blazed into Sam's a moment. Shaking his head, he ran a hand over his eyes before, with defeat, he dropped his hand and faced Sam's anxious look. "It's a curse, alright?" Dean could see the pulse jump in Sam's neck and he pressed on, trying for glibness. "A one day special each year, runs dawn to dusk, just for me."

Heart pounding in his chest, Sam demanded, "What kind of curse?"

"What do you mean what kinda curse?" Dean shot back, hoping to deflect his brother's line of questioning.

Steel was in Sam's retort. "Oh I don't know. Maybe between the '_you are going to have a crappy day_' kind of curse or the '_you're going to die'_ kind of curse."

With dejection, Dean remembered that Sam always knew the right questions to ask. He remained silent a moment but he could see Sam gearing up to spout out the word trust again. "Both, kinda."

"Both?" Sam's voice soft, anticipating, encouraging, barely concealing his frustration.

"Yeah, both," Dean affirmed, stepping past Sam to stand at the foot of the beds. Uncomfortable as Sam maneuvered around to track his every move. "She wasn't specific."

"Who?" Sam's voice was cold enough to freeze Hawaii.

"Anna Corvante, little old lady in Hanestown, New Mexico. Boy was she pissed at me!" Dean reminisced, a smile of cocky victory on his face.

"Pissed enough to want you dead?"

"Absolutely," Dean answered almost proudly before he saw the worry cloud his brother's eyes. "Don't go all mushy on me Sam! She hasn't gotten her wish yet."

"What do you mean _yet_?" Sam demanded, coming to his feet to stand inches from Dean, anger spiking off of him.

"I don't mean _yet_…like today _yet_," Dean stammered, finding himself strangely intimidated by Sam's threatening anger. "I mean she made the curse two years ago, Sam!" Pulling on a smile he tapped his chest with his right hand, "And I'm still drawing breath."

Dean's words escalated Sam's worry instead of mollifying it. "So this happened last year, you getting hurt, having these accidents?" a note of reprimand creeping into his tone, leaving unsaid, '_and you didn't call and tell me this last year…or tell me today until I forced it out of you!'_

Missing the reprimand in his brother's voice, Dean corrected, "Last two years. See, when they were dragging her butt off to throw her into a prison's psycho ward, she cursed me, said I would die on September 21st before the sun set. Me, I thought she meant the _next_ September 21st but I survived that one and then last year, on freakin' September 21st…well, it dawned on me that she didn't say what year on September 21st I would die…guess she built in a loophole in her curse..musta been a lawyer in some past life or .."

Sam cut off Dean's ramble by wrapping a hand on his brother's arm and shooting out a direct question. "So for the past two years on September 21st, this curse has been hanging over your head?"

"Yeah, like a bad remake of Final Destination except without the John Denver music, thank God. I mean kill me, but don't torture me," Dean muttered as if this curse were some small annoyance, something to joke about rather than take seriously.

"Dean!" Sam sputtered. "We're talking about your life being in jeopardy!"

"And this is different from any other day, how?" Dean drawled. "Sam, hunting is a danger.."

"No!" Sam exclaimed, tightening his grip on Dean's arm unconsciously, "Don't you _dare_ give me the "hunting is a dangerous gig" speech again!"

Dean shrugged. If Sam wanted to pretend to be blind to the truth, who was he to sear it into his brain. "Fine. What do you want me to say Sam?"

"Not that," Sam breathed, realizing for the first time that his grip on his brother had the potential to bruise. Letting his hand drop to his side, he offered, "So what's the worst that happened to you last year?"

Immediately, Dean dropped his eyes from Sam's. '_Give Sammy a cigar for again cutting to the heart of the matter! The jerk!' _

Reading Dean wasn't easy, but some things were like neon signs, like the harbinger of doom. '_Like him not looking at me_.' "Dean!" Sam insisted abruptly.

Snapping his head up, Dean answered bitterly, "I got hit by a car, happy?"

'_Happy? Did he just say "happy"! As in, I'm overjoyed my brother was almost roadkill!'_ "Happy!" Sam choked out, his anger and fear turning the word into ice.

"I don't mean "happy"…I meant.." Dean backpedaled, not liking the amount of energy that was coming off of Sam.

Marshaling his overwrought emotions, Sam shook his head, gave that deadly small smile, "Let me get this straight. This woman put a curse on you..to die..on September 21st. And every September 21st since then you've been having "bad days" and you **know** this. And yet today, you've been just out there boldly strolling along like you're _daring _this curse to kill you. Were you this suicidal last year! I mean, if I thought the fates were out to kill me I **think** I would make a special effort to notice any cars coming my way!" As soon as the words were voiced, Sam felt appalled. How could he blame Dean for almost getting killed? But Sam, on some level, knew that his terror at the thought of Dean hurt, dying, always had a way of overwhelming his rational thought.   
"Suicidal!" Dean venomously repeated in disbelief. "I was **_inside_** a freakin' gas station convenience store when the car hit me Sam! Excuse me for not seeing **that** coming!"

Sam forgot to breathe, his heart for an instant forgot to beat. His brother had almost been killed last year, that fact alone had the ability to shatter him. And then there was the indisputable proof of the strength, of the determination of the curse to kill Dean, to take away the person Sam loved, needed, believed in most in the world. Feeling off kilter, Sam sank back onto the bed, instantly Dean was crouched in front of him, concerned eyes searching Sam's.

"Sammy, you alright?"

"We have to break the curse!" Sam croaked out, desperately, his eyes lancing into Dean's green gaze.

"You don't break curses, Sam. You get out of their way, remember?" Dean gently reminded, sensing his brother's emotional edge. "Don't worry, the old crone isn't going to get her way."

"She's still alive, right? She can remove the curse!" Sam insisted.

"Yeah, and why would she do that Sam?" Dean sighed, taking a seat beside Sam on the bed, their eyes remaining on each other. "She is in the psycho ward of a prison. And I put her there."

"I don't understand. Why'd you get the cops involved?"

Dean gave a bitter laugh, "I guess sometimes just putting a curse on someone wasn't up close and personal enough for her. Before I could stop her, she stabbed this one guy to death, was intent on doing the same to me when the cops busted into her house."

Sam could hear the guilt in his brother's tone, read the self hatred in his eyes for not saving the man, for being too late, for being human. '_It probably doesn't even matter to him that he almost died trying to save a stranger, that I wouldn't think that was a fair tradeoff if he had died. _ _But_ _Dad, he would be sooo proud of Dean's self sacrificing attitude!' _Sam bitterly concluded, suddenly forgetting the joy that he had felt seeing his father again in Chicago. '_And I wanted Dad to stay with us!. Wouldn't that have been just like old times._ _Him giving orders, Dean blindly following his orders…even if it would get him killed.'_

Struck with the missing element in his brother's tale, Sam evenly inquired, "Where was Dad?" purposely forbidding censure to creep into his voice, desperate to avoid an argument with Dean.

"Not there," Dean simply said, but his tone made the prospect of learning further details off limits.

"So they arrested her and she cursed you," Sam reiterated aloud, turning his entire concentration on working out a solution.

"She cursed me with my blood on her hands, Sam," Dean provided firmly, watching the glimmer of hope die in Sam's eyes. There was truly nothing stronger than blood, especially to hold a curse together.

"There's got to be a way to get rid of this curse, Dean!" Sam reasoned, his frustration and need unveiled.

"I'm open to suggestions," Dean drawled.

Wracking his brain, Sam considered the easiest course. "Which prison is she in?"

"Sam she won't undo the curse," Dean argued, his voice rising to a level of frustration to match Sam's.

Looking anywhere but at Dean, Sam quietly spoke. "If a living person puts a curse on someone, the curse would die with them. Right?"

Whatever solution Dean thought Sam would conjured up, it was not that one. His voice gentle and non censorious, Dean said, "Like you told me, we don't kill human beings, Sam." Dean paused, saw the way Sam clamped his eyes shut, against his suggestion or against Dean's denial, Dean did not know. With his next words, Dean contradicted his prior words, his annoyance unmistakable, "And even if I _wanted_ to waste the old broad, she's in PRISON Sammy. You know bars, guards, cameras. It's a little hard to do a black bag assassination in that environment."

The quiet words escaped Sam before he had time to even run them through the censor in his head. "You could have it done," forcing himself to meet Dean's shocked look, unwilling to recall the idea now that it was uttered.

For a moment Dean couldn't breathe, certainly couldn't talk. Then he surged from the bed, hands sweeping through the air evident to his high emotions. "Oh this is just great! Now you're talking about me paying off a fellow inmate to shank her! What the hell's wrong with you Sam!"

Coming to his feet, Sam stood toe to toe with his big brother. "I want you to live! Is that so horrible?"

"Marshall Hall already _dead_ so that I could live, I'm not adding to the tally! Not even if it's some old murdering witch," Dean vowed, his stance and blazing eyes cementing his words.

"But you'd kill to save someone else? To save me, dad, _a stranger_!" Sam objected, hating his brother's self sacrificing antics that left him no room for thoughts of self preservation.

"It's my decision, Sam. And I've made it," Dean's low words severe, uncompromising, and final. Seeing the acquiescence in Sam's stance, Dean walked for the door. When Sam's hand latched onto his right arm, he stiffened at the touch to his burned skin.

Seeing Dean's flinch of pain, Sam immediately released his hold but closed the distance between him and Dean. "Alright, we let the woman alone. Now, let's focus on getting through today. Why don't we just hang out right here, safe and sound in this room?" bracing for Dean's harsh denials.

"It doesn't work that way, Sam! Haven't you been listening!" Dean exploded, suddenly fed up with the day's events…and it was still morning! "A car plowed into the interior of a convenience shop! There's no hiding from this!"

"Yes, but there are ways to cut down the risks to you!" Sam shot back, resolved to force some precaution into his brother, at least until this day was over.

"Sam.." Dean began but his cell phone's ring cut him off. Sighing, he flicked the phone open and answered it with a brisk "yeah." The reply was a high piercing burst of static that was so loud that Sam was wincing from his position a foot away. Dropping the phone, Dean clutched his ear, bowed his head and stumbled as his inner ear threatened to flake out.

Wrapping his hands around Dean's arms, Sam steadied Dean. "Dean! Are you alright!" he asked, bending down to look up into his brother's face. The phone's shrill static brutally came to an end a moment later as Sam angrily crushed the phone under his boot heel.

Dean thought he heard a voice but the ringing in his ear was too loud, too piercing, too adapt at making him want to crawl into a ball and cushion his head between his arms. When he was gently settled down to sit on the bed, it barely registered with Dean.

Helplessness swamped Sam as he crouched down before the now seated Dean, his one hand tenderly on Dean's bowed head and his other resting on his brother's knee, forgetting the injury to that part of his brother's body. Despair and fear were writhing through Sam. The phone had harshly proven his brother's point. There was no where for Dean to hide, no safe harbor to protect him from the gale of this storm. '_I'll protect him, I'll be his sanctuary,_' Sam vowed, praying that it would be enough, that _he_ would be strong enough to hold back the tide that threatened to take Dean away from him.

TBC

Thanks for reading and I would love to hear from you!

Cheryl W.


	4. Chapter 4: Border Disputes

Sanctuary

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay in posting! I needed to overhaul this chapter practically from the first word to the last word. (Don't you hate it when you think you wrote something kinda good and after you reread it you realize it stank! Hope the chapter now falls under kinda good rather than stinking.)

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Chapter 4: Border Disputes

"I still say being in this room is safer than being out there," Sam waved a hand toward the motel room's door even as his eyes stayed fixed on Dean who was rummaging in his bag without reaction. "Dean?" Sam said with irritation at his brother's lack of response. "Ah crap," he realized, stepping to Dean's side that still retained its hearing. With the knowledge of his brother's latest injury rekindled, Sam's voice gentled. "Dean, I vote that we stay in here. There has to be less dangerous in here than outside, right?"

Without looking to Sam, Dean began to tick off the threats found just where he stood, "Fire, gas leak, earthquake. Heck, Sam a meteorite could turn me to ash right where I stand." His lips quirked as he continued to search in his bag. "Course maybe I'ld end up having mutant powers…you know, I could be competition for the man in tights."

"Stop trying to pretend this is nothing!" Sam yelled, ripping the bag from his brother's hands and throwing it on the other bed. Breathing hard, Sam waited for Dean to raise his head to meet his eyes before he spoke again, his voice achingly young, "Tell me you have a plan. Tell me what part I play in it. How do I keep you safe?"

"You don't," Dean said sharply, sidestepping Sam and heading for the door. With his inner ear struggling to come fully back on line, Dean's steps were slightly unsteady, making it child's play for Sam to beat him to the door.

Standing immobile in the doorway, his hands braced on each side of the doorframe, Sam conveyed his resolve to wage this fight until he drew his last breath. "Where do you think you're going?" he challenged, gripping the doorframe tighter as Dean's eyes gleamed with a threat to walk right through him, if necessary.

"I'm not dying in this crappy room, Sam," Dean announced with finality, his stance telegraphing his preparation for action.

Terror rifled through Sam's core at Dean's words. Worse still, they instantly meshed in his head with Dean's previous declaration, 'I'm not dying in a hospital where the nurses aren't even hot.'

Watching as Sam's face lost all its color, Dean regretted his choice of words. "Not like I'm _planning_ on dying or anything.." he lamely reassured, his tone slipping into the mocking humor as he broke his defiant stance by shuffling onto his right leg.

"You won't die," Sam swore, voice cracking, eyes burning as they seared into Dean's. Erasing the weakness from his tone, he vowed boldly, "I won't let you die, Dean. I've got your back today."

The tone struck a chord with Dean, reminding him of the bold promise his brother had made him in that hospital. His own words ran through his head, 'I'm going to die and there's nothing you can do to stop it' and then Sam's confident rejoinder played in stereo, "Watch me." Wearily, Dean hung his head a moment before raising his eyes to his brother's feverishly obstinate gaze. "Look, Sam. I'm not asking.."

"You don't have to ask me to protect you," Sam declared, resolve blazing from his very soul. Then, with a smirk on his lips, he tacked on, "It's all part of the inclusive brother package, you know."

"Why does **that** put the fear of God into me?' Dean grumbled but the soft light in his eyes belied his tone. Sighing loudly, Dean relented, "Fine, get my back if I need it but," and his eyes darkened and his tone dropped a few degrees, "I'm not staying in here, Sam. That's the deal, take it or leave it."

Knowing when to walk away from a winning streak, Sam dropped his hand holds on the doorway and turned to his side, allowing Dean ample room to step by him.

Eyes narrowed in suspicion, Dean began to walk by Sam, playfully landing a backhanded slap into his brother's stomach as he passed. Unprepared for the hit, Sam flinched and his breath whooshed out of him. An evil chuckle emanated from his brother, who had begun to walk toward the stairs. Regaining his breath, Sam instantly shot to Dean's side.

Dean came to a slow halt, looked to Sam, his eyebrows raised. Sam's head tilted in confusion. Quirking one side of his mouth up, Dean humorously reprimanded, "Sam, how about shutting the door to the room so we don't get ripped off while you're out protecting me."

With his face flaming red with embarrassment, Sam hastily turned around and pulled their room door securely shut. '_Good one, Sam. I'm sure Dean is feeling safer already with your sharp intelligence to count on today,'_ Sam chided himself, seeing that Dean was already making his way down the stairs without his trusty bodyguard.

Touched by Sam's over protectiveness, Dean allowed a smile to grace his lips as he descended the stairs. He, however, did not offer that expression to Sam when he joined him in the parking lot.

Bristling at Dean's smirk and shaking head, Sam knew his brother had every intention of bringing up this 'blonde moment' incident again in the future. Noting that Dean's eyes didn't reflect the humor his brother was projecting, Sam found his gut clenching with worry. Strictly he turned his focus on the business at hand, namely keeping Dean alive. "So, where are we off to?" he asked, striding ahead of Dean to reach the Impala's driver's side door before Dean. Tensed for an argument and his brother's belligerent presence trying to shove him away from the driver's side, Sam was shocked when Dean pointedly walked past the car and headed for the street. "Dean?" he called out with surprise and confusion.

Turning around and walking backwards, his eyes meeting Sam's, Dean rhetorically asked, "Do I really have to quote the number of fatalities that happen in cars every day, Sam?"

Releasing the car door like it was on fire, Sam quickly abandoned the Impala and jogged to Dean's side. Together the brothers stepped onto the sidewalk, shoulder to shoulder. "Did that happen last time?" Receiving no reply, Sam gave a silent curse as he remembered his brother's current hearing disability. Slipping to Dean's right side, Sam repeated his question. "Did that happen last time?" Instead of an answer he got raised eyebrows of confusion from Dean. "You get in an accident in the Impala?" Sam clarified.

"What are you doing, writing a term paper?" Dean shot back, his annoyance unmasked as his sharp eyes took in his surroundings, trying to anticipate nothing short of an anvil dropping on his head.

Sam chided himself, he **knew** that the direct approach of getting answers only worked one time in a million with his brother. It was foolishness to think this time would be the charm. "No. I just .." he backpedaled, instilling indifference in his tone.

"Well, don't," Dean sharply cut him off, his eyes purposefully not alighting on his brother. A heavy silence fell between the brothers as they walked down the sidewalk of the city. Shooting an assessing look to his younger brother, Dean cringed at Sam's wounded expression. '_Smooth, Dean. He's worried about you and you're biting his head off every two seconds.' _Out of the blue, he whined,"Dude, I'm starving, aren't you?"

The brothers' eyes met and though Dean's words were not an apology, they were an olive branch. An offering Sam readily accepted.

"Yeah, I'm hungry," Sam replied, a smile lighting up his eyes. "But it's weird, I feel like I missed breakfast and yet, I'm pretty sure I spent some time this morning contemplating a breakfast menu," he drawled, shooting Dean a fake bewildered look.

Giving Sam a shove that had the taller man stumbling to the right and laughing, Dean grumbled, "Smart aleck. Next time you take the coffee shower."

Sam's smile remained as they made progress down the street. It only took Dean's proclamation of "there", his finger pointing to a restaurant located on the other side of the street, to steal the mirth from the younger man. With alarm, he realized Dean's intention: to jaywalk across the street. "Whoa!" he exclaimed, flinging his arm out in front of Dean and his hand coming to rest on Dean's chest, keeping his brother firmly on the sidewalk. "We're not at a cross walk, Dean," he pointed out as if he thought Dean was not aware that jaywalking was a crime…and would care once he learned it was.

Dean's face creased with incredulity. "What are you now? The crossing guard?" Grabbing Sam's arm determinedly, he made to dislodge it from his path.

Wholly adverse to letting Dean put himself in the way of any traffic, Sam tenaciously stepped in front of his brother, his hand wrapping tightly in Dean's shirt. Now teetering between the curb and the street, Sam accused, "What's up with you! Before you were Mr. Cautious, only walking in the crosswalks with the walking signs!"

Instilled with his ever vigilant protective instincts for his brother, Dean stepped back a few paces until he was able to yank Sam back on to the relative safety of the sidewalk. "Yeah, well, that was before you knew what we were up against," he replied calmly, releasing his grip on Sam. His brother did not reciprocate the action, instead Sam's hold tightened.

His eyebrows wrinkling in confusion, Sam asked in disbelief, "And what? Now that I know you're in danger that gives you the freedom to be reckless!"

"Crossing the street isn't reckless Sam!" Dean shot back sourly. With an upward sweep of his right arm, he knocked Sam's hand free of its grip on his shirt. Sidestepping to the right, he found Sam there, blocking his path, wearing that formidable expression Dean had seen him level at their father.

"We're not crossing the street, Dean," Sam commanded, standing to his full height, body tense, fully prepared to do whatever was necessary. Inside, Sam's heart was pounding in his chest. He knew he was drawing a line in the sand, terrified of the repercussion of the actions he was willing to take if Dean opted to saunter across the line.

Intuitively, Dean understood the ledge he and Sam now balanced upon. One wrong move, one wrong word and irreparably damage could shake the very foundation their relationship stood upon. Easing his stance, Dean lightly mocked, "So if there's no restaurant on this block, I have to starve?"

Swallowing his terror and overwhelming relief at his brother's surrender, Sam gave a small smile, "Like you always say, every city plan involves a fast food joint on every corner. Guess we're about to prove your theory." Unconsciously, Sam latched onto Dean's arm, turned him right and began to propel him down the sidewalk.

Sam's manipulative hold sparked memories Dean wanted to forget. Memories of Sam helping him stand up, to walk, to sit…to make his way down to the second row of Roy LeGrange's miracle tent. '_Some miracle for Marshall Hall! One second he was alive and the next he was dying so I could live. Well, no one's dying for me today!_'

Startling Sam, Dean growled, "Stop manhandling me, Sam!" Ripping his arm free of Sam's grasp, he angrily stalked down the street, unmindful whether his brother followed. "This is why I didn't want to tell you about the curse. I knew you'd go all.."

"Concerned," Sam supplied with anger, again matching Dean's strides, his eyes on his brother. "Brotherly," he ventured another guess, his voice tight.

"I've handled this curse for the past two years, Sam. **Alone,**" Dean reminded, his tone harsh. "And, maybe you've forgotten, but I've taken care of myself for the past 22 years!" his eyes spearing Sam.

The declaration was as close as Dean had ever come to condemning their Dad's fathering abilities, of hinting at the weight he had had to bear because of John Winchester's failing. Suddenly Sam found his eyes burning. Watching the traffic, he swallowed, struggling to marshal his emotions. Focusing on Dean, he spoke, his voice full of gratitude and respect, "I know that, Dean. You took care of yourself _and me_. I'm not trying to say you can't protect yourself. I'm just saying you don't have to do it alone, not any more."

Stubbornly, Dean refused to look at Sam, to see the compassion in his brother's brown eyes. He wasn't ready to let go of his anger, not yet. Even before Dean spoke, Sam nearly flinched at his brother's censorious glare. A mocking smirk twisted Dean's lips. "Sure, you're here…until you can run back to your real life, can be a _person_ again."

Cursing his poor choice of words in Chicago, Sam drew in a steadying breath, determined to make Dean see his words hadn't been an insult. "Dean, I didn't mean.." but without warning, Dean turned right and disappeared into a building. Forced to backtrack a few paces, Sam followed his brother. As the restaurant's deco assailed his senses, he suddenly felt like he had crossed the border into Mexico.

Already a striking Mexican woman was leading Dean to a table flanking the bar, her smile solely for Dean. Making his own way through the array of occupied tables, Sam arrived in time to hear the flirting tone of the hostess' parting words, "Well, you have a nice lunch."

To Sam's surprise, Dean offered his charming comeback in all Spanish, something that made the woman smile and laugh. Then, putting her hand on Dean's hand, she began to lower herself into the chair at Dean's side.

Before she could claim her seat, a rough man's voice barked from the bar, "Rosita," loud enough to cause most of the patrons of the restaurant to look his way. With an aggravated huff, the hostess turned around and began a rapid fire argument in Spanish with the bartender as she approached him. As their argument continued in louder tones, Dean raised his eyebrows in reaction to the woman's heated words. Inexplicably, he found himself commiserating with the bartender who thought of himself as the hostess's boyfriend. "You're on your own there, dude," he chuckled, shaking his head. Facing Sam, Dean wasn't prepared for his brother's questioning look.

"You know Spanish?' Sam asked, resentment in his voice that this knowledge had been withheld from him.

"Yeah," Dean snapped, his eyes daring Sam to deny the one word statement.

Without further clarification, he looked to the menu.

"How?" Sam pressed, clasping his hands on the table, trying to present the calm façade he used when interrogating witnesses to the supernatural.

His brother's unmistakable belief that he was incapable of knowing another language drove Dean to the end of his already worn patience. Lancing his glare into Sam, he hissed across the table, "I might not have gone to college, but I completed high school, Sam."

The surprise that registered in Sam's eyes was another slap in Dean's face. Laughing bitterly, Dean's eyes turned opaque. "Our family business wasn't the only reason you didn't want me to meet Jess and your other college buddies, was it?" Shaking his head, Dean looked away before the hurt could flicker in his eyes, unwilling to offer up another vulnerable target for Sam to nuke. But he found that he couldn't let the rest remain unsaid. Meeting Sam's gaze head on, his eyes dark and unreadable, Dean conjectured, "It would have hurt your ego, letting them see that you were related to some dim witted guy who barely managed to graduate high school."

Going pale, Sam fervently shook his head in denial. "No. Dean it was never.."

"Shut up, Sam," Dean ordered gruffly, pointedly looking away from Sam and his pitying look.

"But Dean…." Sam tried, his voice insistent.

Facing Sam, Dean growled, "Shut. Up.", the threat in his tone rarely unleashed on Sam. When Sam flinched as if Dean had landed a blow and his eyes instantly skittered away from his older brother, a twinge of guilt stole over Dean. Seeing the convulsive swallows Sam made and the way he was biting his bottom lip didn't ease Dean's remorse. '_For the moment, he's staying. He's here, now, why are you punishing him for doing what you want him to!' _The answer was hard and bitter and painful._ 'Because he's forcing himself to be here, to care, and he doesn't even think he's a person living this life, doing this job, being with me'. _Then, with the force of a tornado, a sorrowful revelation slammed into Dean._ 'I should have let him go with Dad. **I** should be going solo, not Dad. Sam and Dad, they need each other, their sense of loss could bridge the gap that Stanford created. They might finally find a middle ground…..without me around.' _

As the idea continued to ricochet through his head,the more certain he believed it was the best plan of action._ 'I should call Dad, tell him to come get Sam. I need to do it now, before this day gets any worse.'_ With that goal in mind, he reached for his phone only to find it missing from his pocket. '_Ah crap, that's right my phone's toast_.' With that reminder of his earlier abuse, he unconsciously pressed the palm of his hand over his abused ear, recalling that the muffled hearing and the ringing wasn't normal.

"Is it hurting worse?"

Even with one ear in operation, Dean could detect the concern in his brother's words, could make out the uneven tempo of his tone. Dropping his hand, he shrugged it off, "Nah, its fine," his eyes skimming to Sam to gauge his brother's emotions.

Before Dean could decipher Sam's expression, a plump middle aged waitress came to their table bearing glasses of water and a tired smile. "Do you need a few more minutes to decide?" she asked, causing Sam to become aware of the menu in front of him.

"Bowl of chili," Dean promptly supplied, giving a small smile to the woman as he turned over his menu to her.

She didn't look up as she wrote his order, "Something to drink?"

"Coff.." Dean began to reply.

"Cokes!" Sam contradicted adamantly, shooting Dean an incredulous look like ordering coffee was akin to ordering Cocaine. "For both of us."

Not batting an eyelash at the outburst, the waitress settled her look to Sam. "So what will you be having?"

"Ah…" Sam hedged, his eyes scanning the offering. "The Mexican sampler," he answered after a moment, handling the menu to her.

"I'll be right back with your drinks and some nachos," she informed before turning away from their table.

Distractedly, Sam watched the waitress walk past the bar to disappear behind the kitchen doors.

"So what, now I can't have coffee?" Dean groused under his breath like a child rebelling at his punishment.

"Sure you can," Sam drawled, a light returning to his eyes as he sighted on his slouched brother. "When you show me you can order it without wearing it."

"Funny, Sam, a real gut buster," Dean muttered, feeling his tension ease at Sam's taunt, just like his little brother had intended.

As a more relaxed air fell on the table, Sam was finally able to draw in a full breath again. Of all the types of fighting he hated, fighting with Dean he despised the most. It always left him feeling like a traitor of the worst sort. And then there was the distance it created between him and Dean. He never did have the capacity to endure that level of misery.

As promised, their drinks and complimentary nachos arrived along with two small dishes offering hot and mild sauce. Simultaneously, the each brother sought to deluge their nacho with hot sauce. Their chips collided, sprinkling the small dish with the destroyed nacho crumbs. Their eyes clashing over the nachos, they soon broke into laughter. For too long, they had been focusing on their differences, forgetting how alike they were, how their thoughts could forge together into a fine oiled machine, how often they tended to utter the same exact words at the same exact time. The last was occurring so often as they grew up that Dean had rendered the "jinx" game off limits. Besides, neither boy excelled at silence, especially when it hampered their ability to annoy their sibling.

Retrieving the remains of their respective nachos from the sauce, the brothers crunched contently on the offerings for a few minutes. The silence was one of companionship now, even contentment.

"Dude, you should have _seen_ the dive I stayed at in Mexico!" Dean said after awhile, his enthusiasm for his tale unmasked.

Two of Dean's words, _I_ and _Mexico, _jolted Sam, their connotations webbing together to snake an invisible stranglehold on him. With his throat suddenly constricted, he forced himself to take a deep gulp of his water and tried to quiet his rampant thoughts. '_Since when do we take on jobs in Mexico (thereby breaking one of our father's strictest rules: "never cross any borders and get yourself subject to a car search")! And where was Dad that time!.'_ Knowing that uttering either question could jeopardize the truce he and Dean had patched together, Sam instead jokingly challenged, "I can't believe it could be worse than that place in the Everglades."

Dean snorted. "Trust me, it made that joint look like the presidential suite!I swear Jimmy Hoffa could have been buried in the room I was staying in and his decomposing body would have been the only scent that didn't gag me. I mean, the number of bullet holes in the walls…the blood stains…the cockroaches. The good news would have been that the place was haunted and I could dynamite it."

"Was it?" Sam asked carelessly, hoping his tone would lull Dean into confessing what had prompted him to venture across the border.

"Haunted?" Dean scoffed, indicating he didn't believe the old adage that stated that no question was stupid. "Course not. Wasn't what I went down there for." Then he pulled his attention from Sam. Chomping down on more nachos, he took a healthy swallow of his Coke, giving no indication that he would continue his tale.

"Alright," Sam drew out, "so you got my attention. Finish your tale."

"What tale?" Dean innocently asked, raising his eyebrows in mock confusion.

Sighing dramatically, Sam wheeled his hands in front of him, indicating he wanted Dean to come out with it.

Smiling at his willing audience, Dean leaned over the table, his voice low, "Bodies were showing up decapitated, heads remaining MIA. It sounded like some ritual …"

"So you headed down to check it out, _alone!_" Sam's words were drenched in disapproval.

Choosing to ignore his brother's attitude, Dean replied, his eyes flashing mischievously. "I was in Texas, it was just a skip and a _jump_ away."

Comprehension hit Sam hard. Leaning over the table he lowly growled, "You _jumped_ the border fence? Dean, do you know what could have happened if.."

"I didn't get caught, Sammy," Dean preempted Sam's lecture, offended at even the notion that he couldn't allude a few border patrols.

Clenching his jaw, his teeth protesting, Sam fought to reign in his anger. Reaming out his reckless brother would do him no good. In fact, from past experience he knew it would only result in Dean shutting him out. That was something he couldn't risk, wouldn't risk, especially not today. Taking time to munch on a few more nachos, he coached himself on his next words. Finally he managed to conversationally inquire, "So what kind of ritual was it?" Internally he growled, '_Like I care about the lives of people I've never even met compared to the danger you were in down there, in another country, with hellish prisons, on your own.' _

Before Dean could answer, the waitress returned bearing their food. It seemed a role of reversals when Dean was presented with one bowl and Sam's order came on two plates. Picking up his spoon, ready to dive into the chili, Dean was puzzled as Sam moved the nacho basket and sauces to the edge of the table and placed his 2nd plate in the middle of the table. Gearing up to give Sam dirt for being a table hog, Dean was forestalled as Sam spoke.

"You're helping with this," Sam announced, shoving his 2nd plate toward Dean and giving Dean a stern look.

"You ordered it, you eat it," Dean argued back, sounding like Sam had ordered him to eat his vegetables.

"All you ordered was chili, Dean," Sam said reasonably, trying for a lightness and logic he was hoping Dean would accept. Dropping his eyes to his plate, hoping to give off a non ordering vibe, he stated, "I know you can stuff down a taco and burrito with it." When silence met his words, Sam tempted fate enough to sneak a glance across to his brother. The look in Dean's eyes told him his mothering was duly noted and strangely accepted.

"I'm not eating any rice," Dean warned, oddly touched by his brother's concern at his lacking appetite.

"No, of course not. Your body might go into shock if you ate anything with some nutritional value in it," Sam kidded back, surprised when he was hit in the cheek with a few grains of rice. Laughing he pointed his fork at Dean, "Stop it. I'ld hate to have to superglue you to something again."

"Dude, I still haven't forgiven you for that," Dean threatened, the smirk on his face countering his words as he dug his spoon into his chili.

Busy heaping sour cream into his fajita, Sam, hearing Dean gasping for air, jerked his head. _Dean's choking! _Instantly his first aid knowledge about choking came to the forefront of his thoughts. Intending to scramble to his brother's side and begin the Heimlich maneuver, he halted in his actions when Dean made a desperate grab for his coke glass, downing it instantly. Dropping the empty glass carelessly on the table, Dean latched onto his water glass, draining that too, uncaring that water dribbled down his chin.

Putting together the flush on his brother's face and the tears streaming down his cheek, Sam realized the chili's hot ingredients were the culprit for his brother's predicament. "Here," he offered his half cup of Coke to Dean who readily took the liquid and poured it on the inferno that was his throat. Turning to his water glass, Sam was chagrined that he had already drunk all of his water.

Unexpected laughter emanated from the direction of the bar. It had the power to draw Sam's worried gaze from his brother to the bartender, who was bent over laughing too hard to breathe.

"Gringos," the bartender sputtered in humor and contempt amid his laughter, "they are all alike. Soft."

Torn between leaping across the bar and suffocating the bartender with a hot pepper and trying to aid Dean, Sam turned a measuring look to Dean. Watching Dean wave his hand in front of his open mouth, still grasping for breath, it was no real consideration. "Rice," Sam exclaimed, shoving his plate in front of Dean. "Eat the rice, it'll help."

Without protest, Dean picked up his spoon and shoved the rice into his mouth. It was not an instant relief but the fiery burning was easing with each spoonful. He didn't even question how another two glasses of water suddenly appeared in front of him. The first glass was downed like the others but the second one was slowly drained, the fire simmering down to embers now. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Dean took in deep breaths, his lungs starved for air, feeling as if he had nearly drowned himself, willingly.

Wrapping a hand around his brother's upper arm, Sam gently prodded, "You alright? Should I get milk or more water?"

Surprised to find Sam crouching beside his chair, his dark eyes looking up worriedly at him, Dean took a deep breath, briskly wiping away the tears that had tracked down his cheeks. "Now that…that was waaaaay too hot.." he admitted ruefully.

"Well I think it wasn't their normal recipe," Sam's voice could have cut a diamond, his look shifting over his shoulder to the bartender who was now leaning back against the shelf, a smug look on his features.

Following his brother's gaze to the hostess's boyfriend, the pieces fell together for Dean. "New rule Sammy: Don't piss off the cook by flirting with his girl."

Sam almost pointed out that the guy was a bartender, not the cook but it was simply a moot point. The man had broken Sam Winchester's number one rule: Don't screw with my brother. Satisfied that Dean wasn't going to self combust, Sam came to his feet and began to stalk toward the bartender like a big cat did to his doomed prey. "You're going to be sucking things up by a straw," he promised, his tone a deadly hiss.

"Bring it on gringo," the bartender taunted, waving his hand forward and stepping up to the bar to be closer to his opponent.

Flying from his chair in haste, Dean barely made it in front of Sam before his younger brother reached the bar. "Whoa," he interceded, his hands on his brother's chest. Sam's eyes continued to blaze over his shoulder at the bartender. "Sam," Dean demanded his hands gripping Sam's shirt and doling out a stern shake. Rewarded with Sam's heated brown gaze, Dean quoted their father's sage advice, "Pick your fights wisely, Sammy." Letting the tension ease from him, Sam nodded his head, earning his freedom from Dean's fierce hold.

"Alright, let's just finish our meal," Dean proposed, turning back to their table, aware too late that Sam was not at his side. Spinning around, he saw Sam haul the bartender practically over the bar and harshly plow a right cross into the other man's jaw. With a moan, the man sank down out of sight behind the bar.

Turning around and coming face to face with Dean's raised eyebrows, demanding an explanation, Sam shrugged. As he casually walked past his brother, Sam off handedly confessed, "I picked **that **fight." Reclaiming his chair, Sam spotted the waitress's shocked face among the stunned onlookers. "Could we get some more drinks? And I think there's something wrong with the chili," he called to her as if nothing strange had occurred in the last few minutes.

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"Sam, that…" Dean smiled, pointing to Sam, pride in his eyes, as they exited the restaurant "that was cool. '_Could we get some more drinks? And I think there's something wrong with the chili,_" Dean mimicked, giving Sam a congratulatory punch on the arm. "I loved that, man."

"Just taking a page out of the master's book," Sam explained, unable to wipe the giddy smile off his face at his brother's compliments.

"Yeah, Dad can do that whole .." Dean began to agree, envy lurking in his tone.

"Not Dad. You, stupid!" Sam corrected, laughter in his tone even as he fought to smother the discontent that flared in him when he realized that Dean didn't know how cool he was. Catching Dean's jacket in his hand as they made their way down the sidewalk, he sputtered in laughter, "I still remember the look on that guy's face up in Maine when you.." He never finished his sentence. The sound of a tire blowing shattered the quiet of the afternoon and then the pickup truck swerved across traffic, jumped the sidewalk and made a beeline for Dean.

TBC

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Again, I hope the chapter turned out OK. Love to hear your thoughts on it. To make up for the long wait for this chapter, I'm hoping to post the next chapter by Wednesday!

Thanks to all my reviewers! You guys are so wonderfully supportive and I appreciate that!

Thanks for reading!

Cheryl W.


	5. Chapter 5: Running Interference

Sanctuary

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

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Chapter 5: Running Interference

There was nothing in the world like seeing the grill of a truck coming right for you. In the spectrum of Dean's life, it was a pretty tame last sight. _Ah crap! Going out as road kill, right in front of Sammy! Not if I can help it! _Even as he tried to dodge right, he knew in his gut that he wasn't going to be fast enough. _Least it's not going to take out Sam_, the truck having been relentlessly locked on him from the start and seemingly to the finish.

Other people discounted seconds, writing them off, never valuing them for the saving grace they were, or could be, ...to the right people. People like Sam Winchester, who had been raised with the stout belief that seconds were malleable, were where the Winchesters excelled, in the blinking of an eye, the line between success and failure, life and death. Sam used his seconds wisely, shoving Dean to the right with all his might before he himself dodged left. He could feel the whish of the truck as it nearly clipped him. And then he was tumbling onto the sidewalk, coming to a halt as his back impacted harshly with the wall of the nearest building.

Anticlimactically the truck came to an abrupt almost noiseless stop on the sidewalk. Confusion eclipsed Sam as the distinct sound of tires squealed, brakes locked up, metal crashed into metal, and glass shattering. Disaster had been averted…or had it? _No, the truck was stopped, and I know I shoved Dean clear of the truck._ A counter thought blazed through his soul, _Too clear_, sickly recalling the desperate strength he had put into the shove to Dean. "Dean!" he screamed, leaping from the ground and rounding the truck, heart painfully pounded in his chest.

Then everything stopped, his breathing, his heart, his hearing, everything but the shock. The two crashed cars, their grill and back bumper forged together by the force of the impact, barely registered his notice. Stumbling forward, pushing through the gathered crowd, feeling as if the death of his very soul lay just out of sight.

It was a gift of his training that he didn't scream, that he stood there, wavering, stunned. Wishing he didn't recognize his brother's boots, his nearly worn through jeans. "Dean" Sam choked out, his voice shattering as he sank to his knees beside his brother's still body, his brother's torso and head hidden underneath the crashed cars. Sam's hands gripped onto his brother's jeans, desperate, shaking, white as their grip intensified. "Dean?" Sam cried, so scared to look under the cars to see Dean mangled, decimated, unrecognizable or maybe even worse, looking like he was simply asleep, that all it would take was Sam's calling his name to rouse him. "Dean, please," Sam pleaded his voice a sob. Sinking to his stomach, Sam forced himself to crawl forward, to save Dean or to say goodbye. His badly trembling body barely worked as he inched further under the car, gripping Dean as he went, unwilling to relinquish the contact, desperate that Dean that he was coming, that he was here, now, even if it was too late.

Two things registered with Dean, the smell of rubber and the feel of hands moving from his legs, up his left arm and onto his chest. More alarming than the rubber was the certainty he had that the hands seemingly using him as a ladder were **not** female hands. Female hands he had intimate knowledge of, with his eyes closed or open, he was an expert either way. Frantically, he wracked his brain to make sense of it all. It came back to him like blinding, flashes of light. September 21st, cursed, truck determined to make him a hood ornament, Sam's shove, tumbling full out onto the street, lying there as a car barreled right for him, rolling away and then nothing..until now.

"Sam, those better be your hands on me and not some pervert's," Dean wheezed out, blinking the world into focus and finding the undercarriage of two cars a less than encouraging sight.

"Dean!" Sam choked out, relief washing over him, sapping whatever strength he had held onto by sheer willpower. Bowing his head onto Dean's shoulder, Sam tightened his grip on Dean's other shoulder, leaving his arm resting across Dean's chest in what some would classify as _almost_ a hug. "I thought…you weren't moving…the cars," Sam's voice hitched and he raised his eyes, taking in Dean's pale but animate features. "Someone called an ambulance, just relax…"

"Relax!" Dean very lowly repeated with exasperated indignation. "Sam, I'm lying on the street, under two cars! Now get off me so I can get out of here." Putting action to words, he wrestled his right arm free from Sam's weight enough to latch onto Sam's jacket and give it a sharp impatient pull backwards, like Sam was a disobedient horse, his jacket equivalent to a rein in his mouth.

Instead of easing his weight on Dean, Sam pulled himself up further, leveraging more firmly on Dean, his hand pressing his brother's shoulder back onto the pavement. His breath was practically in Dean's face, the fire in his eyes readily discernible even in the shadow made by the two cars overhead. "Dean, you're hurt," his words blunt, as his eyes stole to the blood that matted the left side of his brother's head, spiking his emotions to fear once again. Feeling his brother's body tense with rebellious denial, Sam unearthed the most calm, soothing tone he could tap into under the circumstances. "I think it would be best…"

"What would be _best_ is if you got off me and helped me out of here. Now," Dean said dangerously.

"Dean.." Sam unleashed his most effective weapon, his soft tortured pleading tone.

Allowing himself to sympathize with Sam's present feelings, Dean, removing his grip from Sam's jacket, quietly assured, "Sam, I'm not hurt, not really. Head hurts a little but that's it." He gave a little scoffing laugh, "My leg isn't going to come off in your hands if you go to yank me out from under here, Sammy."

"You stupid jerk," Sam cursed back, his voice teetering between laughter and a sob.

"Yeah, whatever. Now get your butt in gear Sam," Dean boldly ordered, knowing when a battle with Sam was won.

"Nice and slow, Dean," Sam warned, inching himself backwards, missing Dean's silent mimic of 'nice and slow, Dean.' Almost clear of the cars, Sam halted and hesitantly put his hand on his brother's legs. "You ready?" he called, tilting his head to see Dean's face under the cars.

"Yeah, been ready for a year now," Dean retorted back.

"Here goes," Sam breathed and as gently as possible he picked up Dean's legs and began to pull his brother free from the wreckage. Ignoring the shocked gasps and outraged reactions from the onlookers behind him, Sam focused on the task at hand, relieved when Dean was fully free from the twisted metal.

Before Sam could order Dean to lie still, the older Winchester was sitting up, was working on making the move to stand. Knowing a lost cause when he saw it, Sam went to Dean's side, wrapped an arm around his brother's waist, gripped Dean's hand and helped him to his feet. Dean's falter was not noticeable to the crowd that thought they were witnessing a miracle, but Sam felt the tremble that went through Dean like it was an arrow burrowing into his chest, shattering the illusion of invulnerability his brother donned, sometimes just for him.

Tightening his hold on Dean, Sam led Dean to the sidewalk, cursing the lack of a bench for the second time in the day. The onlookers closed in on the siblings, questions flew, recaps of the events filled the air, a guy approached, ready to lend his support to Dean on his right side.

"Don't touch him," Sam commanded lowly, his voice menacing enough to make the good Samaritan stumble to a stop.

At the tone, Dean shot an accessing, worried look to his little brother's profile. Concluding that this was Sam at his most dangerous, when he was in that worried, overprotective little brother mode, Dean reassessed his next course of action. Breaking free of Sam's support seemed the wrong move now, sensing that Sam needed to give him support almost more than Dean needed to receive it.

Dean was contemplating option 2 when Sam propped him against a parked car, his brother's taller body close enough to ensure Dean would contact with that hard flesh before the cement under his feet. Wincing against the sunlight, Dean shook his head, attempting to get his fuzzy vision to clear. Gentle but persistent fingers settled under his chin, forcing him to meet Sam's anxious gaze, even as another even more gentle hand touched his forehead, looking for the source of the blood staining his face.

"Ahh…" erupted from Dean as he winced, indicating that Sam's probing fingers had found their mark.

"Sorry," Sam murmured using that tender tone Dean loved and hated, lightening his touch, his well trained eyes assessing the seriousness of the still bleeding gash. "Doesn't look too deep," he diagnosed, pulling back a little to double check his finding in Dean's gaze. "You don't seem to have a concussion."

Uncomfortable being the center of the crowd's attention and Sam's, Dean flicked his eyes to the strangers that were taking in everything like it was a show and then back to Sam. "Told you I was fine," his hand already pushing on Sam's shoulder to give him room, his escape planned. Once again Sam was proving to be a stumbling block.

His hand on his brother's chest, Sam pressed Dean back against the car. "Dean you just got hit by a car!" Sam quietly reiterated as if Dean had somehow missed that event. "You could have internal bleeding, or bruised kidneys. You need to go to the hospital to get checked over."

"I didn't get hit by a car!" Dean denied with a hiss. "And I'm NOT going to the hospital, Sam," his tone of voice telling Sam that the decision was made and nothing he did was going to unmake it.

The sound of an ambulance's siren interrupted Sam's reply. Dean made an attempt to slip to the left and evade Sam's grasp but Sam was instantly there, blocking that route. "I'm serious, Dean. You need to get examined." Sam's reaction to seeing Dean trapped under the cars, unmoving, gave Sam the steel to not back down, even to his brother's most stringent protests.

With the siren's whine getting closer, Dean felt pressured to get through to Sam. So he did what he did best, he kept his cool. Leaning back against the car willingly, Dean crossed his arms at his waist and crossed his legs at his ankles. "Fine. Sure. The hospital's a safe place for me today. It's not like they could overdose me, poison me, sever an artery, inject me with something I'm allergic to, take me to surgery and screw up." Each scenario deepened his brother's features, made the resolve in Sam's eyes dim. Seeing he was having marginal success in breaking through to Sam, Dean brutally condemned, his voice now sharp, "You send me to the hospital and you might as well be putting a gun to my head and pulling the trigger, Sam."

"Again, you mean," Sam breathed out, his head dropping to the left, his eyes watching the accident victims bicker among themselves, having already forgotten that they almost killed his brother.

"Oh, yeah, right, I meant you could put the gun to my head and pull the trigger, _again_, like you did in the asylum," Dean sarcastically bit back. "Sam don't be such a drama queen."

Warily Dean watched the ambulance pull in beside the two damaged cars. When Dean's eyes alighted back on Sam, the pleading in them shook Sam to the core. "Sam.." Dean began.

"I won't let them take you to the hospital, Dean. They can stitch you up in the ambulance with me watching their every move," Sam counter offered. And Sam _needed _Dean to agree, because, for all Sam's hands-on medical knowledge, he really wanted to hear some reassurances from an honest to God medic that Dean wasn't slowly dying of internal bleeding. It had been too close this time, too _real_, his emotions too similar to his reaction to Dean's electrocution. "Don't fight me on this, Dean," his words as much an order as a plea.

Recognizing the emotional edge Sam perched on, Dean relented. "I'm not taking any medication, I'm getting no shots..of anything," he qualified.

Sam nearly gave an outward sign of relief. "Fine with me." Then Sam wrapped his hand around Dean's arm and pulled him from the car. The brothers turned and were suddenly confronted by two male paramedics.

"Sir, can you make it back to the ambulance or.." the younger, blond man began but Dean cut him off as Sam knew he would.

"I can walk," Dean's voice was indignant and Sam couldn't help the smile that broke out on his tense mouth.

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Sam shot a worried look to Dean as they crossed the park. "You sure you don't want to go back to the room, lay down for awhile?"

It was a different variation to the same question his brother had been asking for the past hour. Watching as a beautiful blonde woman jogged by them, Dean almost forgot the question, until Sam slipped to his other side, and began to repeat his question for his fully functional ear.

"Dean, I said are you sure…"

"You know I'm starting to think you have the hearing problem," Dean said, trying to keep his tone light, sensitive to his brother's touching but over the top worry for him. "The medic said I didn't have a concussion, I didn't even need stitches Sam." As Sam seemed ready to object, Dean finished, "And I don't have any internal bleeding, or bruised …lung or whatever. Like I told you, my head hurt a little but that was it." Then Dean shot off on a tangent, hoping to wipe out the seriousness in Sam's eyes, "I should have a medical degree, stuff I know, stuff I know that that medic _didn't_ know… Did he seem young to you? What is this? His high school co-op job!"

Sam looked across the park, biting his lower lip. Dean wanted to make this all a joke but nothing about Dean getting hurt, almost killed was funny, especially this last accident. "I'm sorry, Dean," his words a whoosh of air that barely carried to Dean. "It was my fault…I shoved you too hard…I just…when I saw the truck, I just wanted you to be safe."

Dean snagged Sam's arm, yanking his brother around to face him. "Sam, if you hadn't given me that push you'd be using a Shop Vac to suck me out of that truck's grillwork."

"Dean, I pushed you right into traffic!" Sam nearly yelled, his tone taking on that hard edge it always did when his anger was getting the best of him. Running trembling hands through his hair, Sam walked away from Dean. Already remorse was setting in for raising his voice at Dean. He wasn't mad at Dean. He was mad at himself, at his actions, at almost getting his brother killed. '_Yeah, and I'm supposed to be protecting him! With a bodyguard like me, who needs to hire assassins…or bother to put a curse on someone?'_

Dean struggled after Sam, his left leg emanating a twinge of pain, a deterrent to his speed, a deterrent Sam didn't know about and did not _need_ to know about. Dean came to stand before Sam, who had taken up a leaning position against a tree that offered a fair amount of cover from the sun that was turning even more relentless as the afternoon continued. Toe to toe, the brothers' eyes held.

Seeing Sam's guilt, Dean looked away and clenched his jaw, he had known this would happen the second Sam assigned himself bodyguard duty. Sam just wasn't willing to see what they were up against, what Dean was up against. '_Well, it's time he faced facts_,' Dean resolved, his eyes lancing into Sam. "That **wasn't** your fault, Sam! Nothing that happens to me today is anyone's fault. It's the curse, Sam. Come on, man, you know the strength of a curse! It will use whatever is in the works, will create whatever situations it has to in order to inflict the most damage. A curse manipulates _everything, _does _whatever_ it has to do so that it is fulfilled."

In hind sight, as he watched the color drain completely from Sam's face, Dean perceived that explaining the relentlessness of a curse wasn't exactly the comforting pep talk Sam needed right now. "Oh, Sam, don't.." Dean quietly mumbled in almost a plea, shifting on his feet. "Stop looking at me like I just told you Santa Clause isn't real."

Forcing anger to eclipse the fear that was threatening to seize control of his every thought, Sam pushed off the tree. He seemed intent on stalking away, until he swung around after five steps, accusation in his eyes, a damning finger aimed at Dean who had taken up Sam's abandon position against the tree. "You're doing it again!"

Remaining calmly poised against the tree, Dean answered Sam's accusation with silence a few moments before raising his eyebrows in inquiry. It was a testament to Sam's love for his brother that he didn't close the distance between them and deliver a knock out punch.

"You're giving up!" Sam roared. "Just like.." his voice suddenly deserted him and he clenched his jaw. He couldn't say it, didn't want to remember it, didn't want to draw any conclusion of similarities.

Dean had no such qualms to making the connection. "When I was dying," he finished Sam's sentence, his forthrightness instantly deepening the pain in Sam's eyes. Regret burned in Dean. He should not have bowed to his need to prove he could talk about that time without batting an eye. Somehow it was a revelation to see that, even referring to that event, hurt Sam, deeply if his eyes were any gauge.

Sam put his hands in his pockets and dropped his gaze to the ground, refusing to go to pieces on Dean. He was supposed to be the strong one today, to take on the big brother protective role. '_It's too heavy a mantle, Dean. You wear it so effortlessly and me, I'm crumbling under it! I'm failing you in so many ways!'_

Pained at the sight of Sam looking so dejected, Dean sighed and tried to ease his brother's worry. "Look Sam, I was just saying all the ways a curse _tries_ to be fulfilled. I didn't say anything about this curse being fulfilled," he boasted, his voice a bold 'I dare ya' to any curse that wanted to take him on. It earned him Sam's attention and that quick smile Sam pulls out when he's closest to crying but his big brother has made him smile instead. "Remember I've gone a few rounds with this bad boy. And the score is: Dean Winchester – 2, Curse – 0. And my bet's on another victory for that handsome Winchester guy."

Sam couldn't hold back the small laughter, the smile. He had never been able to build any defenses against one of Dean's pep talks. Four years at college hadn't changed that. "Come on, Rocky," he sallied, turning around and beginning to walk toward the pond in the park.

Dean smiled, his eyes flashing with good humor and started to follow Sam. It shouldn't have surprised him, he should have seen it coming. Sure, why not. Add crushed by a tree limb to his tally of accomplishments for the day. It happened too quickly, too quietly. There was no time to react, no time to leap clear, only time to regret he was going out like some stoned lumberjack. '_Timber._'

And then the freight train that was Sam crashed into his side, knocking the air from his lungs, slamming him into the ground. Miraculously the crash of the limb striking the ground didn't coincide with pain shooting down his spine or the nothingness of death. No, the only thing that pressed against his spine as he lay face first on the ground was the weight of Sam. Dead weight.

TBC

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Thank you all for reading and for all the wonderful supportive reviews!

You've all made it a joy to post each chapter!

(I know, if I really appreciated your kindness I wouldn't have ended this chapter with another cliffhanger! Well if Dean has to suffer (and now Sam) wouldn't you feel a little guilty being stress free at their expense? (Me neither).

Cheryl W.


	6. Chapter 6: Doing the Right Thing

Sanctuary

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

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Chapter 6: Doing the Right Thing

"Sam!" Dean cried, twisting his head around to see Sam laying on him, unmoving, the tree limb pinning his legs. Pulling his left arm from under his own body, Dean gently shook Sam by the shoulder. "Sam, Sammy, come on!" his desperation leaping higher and higher at his brother's lack of response.

With slow measured moves, Dean extracted himself from under Sam, more worried than ever when his brother didn't stir, didn't make a sound. Kneeling at Sam's head, Dean put his hand on Sam's right cheek, "Sam, open your eyes, man," he pleaded. When Sam remained unresponsive to his plea, Dean surged to his feet, determined to remove the tree from his brother. He kept telling himself that Sam would be Ok when he moved the tree, if he gave Sam a few more minutes to gather his strength, he would be fine, everything would be alright.

The trunk sized tree limb was angled against the bottom of the tree trunk and slanting across Sam's upper legs, causing the limb's leaf covered smaller branches to pool on the ground at Sam's right. Slipping to Sam's left side, positioning himself between the tree and Sam, Dean struggled to lift the tree from Sam. Groaning in exertion and frustration, Dean found his strength was useless against the weight of the sixty year old tree limb. Changing positions, he bent down and placed his shoulder under the limb, his muscles strained but the tree didn't move an inch. "Ahhhh!" he roared in panic and aggravation, _this couldn't be happening, not to Sam. This is supposed to happen to me! Not him!_

Sam groaned, galvanizing Dean to instantly crouch beside his brother's head. "Sammy," he urged gently, his hand again on Sam's cheek, watching as his brother's dark lashes fluttered.

Emerging from the murky depths of unconsciousness, Sam struggled to open his eyes. Accomplishing that feat, it was the effort to bring his sight into focus that next claimed his attention. "Dean?" he wheezed as his brother's pale, worried features crystallized. The seconds before his unplanned nap returned to him sharply. "Dean, are you alright!" he asked, apprehension bleeding from his voice and his eyes.

"You're pinned under the tree but I'll get you free, Sam," Dean vowed, his brother's question unanswered as he made to climb to his feet and force the tree free from his brother no matter what it took. He was surprised when Sam's hand shot out, capturing his wrist.

With his hold on Dean ensuring his brother wouldn't move, Sam risked a glance over his shoulder to assess his own condition. Now, having the chance to make out the size of the limb, he felt himself trembling, recalling how he saw it falling, aiming straight for Dean. His reactions had been instinctive, and had nothing to do with being a man used to danger, and everything to do with being a brother. Settling his eyes back on Dean, he couldn't help assess his brother for injuries since Dean had chosen to not answer his question.

The relief in his brother's eyes confused Dean. He was about to fly apart and Sam looked like he had just gotten some of the best news he'd ever heard. Fearing that shock had begun to set in, Dean soothed, "You're going to be alright, Sam. How much pain are you in?"  
His brother's question forced Sam to evaluate his condition. "There's not pain so much as pressure on my legs."

"I'll get you…" Dean began but another voice cut him off.

"I saw what happened…" a man announced as he run up to the brothers, his breath wheezing at his obvious run. Three other men were coming behind him. Dean remembered walking past these guys as they threw football in the park.

A woman's voice coming from near Sam's feet had Dean realizing that they had attracted a crowd. "I'll call an ambulance," the brunette middle aged woman announced, nestled in among the other six people fanned out at her side.

"Wait!" Sam exclaimed, feeling like everything was happening too fast, too out of his control. Shooting his brother a look, he was surprised to see Dean accepting if not relieved by the notion of an ambulance being sent for his brother. For a fleeting second, Sam wondered if it was his brother's payback for forcing him to let the medic do his examination. The ashen look of his brother's features, the dark worry in his eyes made Sam blush in shame. Gut wrenching fear drove Dean's actions, he was a fool to think otherwise.

Latching onto Dean's wrist again, Sam implored, "Don't call an ambulance, not yet. Just get me free of the limb first," his eyes looking pleadingly to Dean.

But it wasn't Dean who replied but the first man on the scene as he crouched down beside Dean. "I'm a doctor, I can check him out before we call the ambulance," he offered. Nodding toward the tree limb, he reassured, "Relax, we'll have the limb off you in a minute."

Putting action to words, the other men that gathered around Sam each took up a position around the tree limb. Dean and the doctor moved to be in front of Sam, their hands slipping under Sam's arms, poised to pull Sam free at the first instant they could.

"On three," Dean ordered, his eyes settling on Sam's too trusting gaze that didn't leave him. "One, two, three.." With straining muscles, the group freed Sam of the tree limb. Instantly Dean and the doctor pulled Sam forward, not stopping until he was totally clear of the tree.

Dean didn't even see the other men reposition the limb back unto the ground, didn't register that the doctor was already examining Sam's legs, all that Dean could do was choke out, "Sam? Are you alright?"

Sam opened his mouth to reply but it was the doctor who answered, "Nothing feels broken." He turned his look to Sam, "Are you in a lot of pain, lose any sensation to your legs, any tingling?"

"No," Sam stammered, breaking Dean's eye contact to look over his shoulder to the doctor. "Feels bruised that's all, I think the brunt of the impact was on the tree trunk. I just got pinned under it." Turning his look to Dean, he firmly reassured, "I'm fine."

Dean was wearing that shuttered look and Sam wasn't prepared when Dean quickly stood up. "Dean?" he called in question before the doctor invaded the space Dean had vacated.

"You seem fine. There will be some bruising though. Should an ambulance be called?" the doctor asked, his eyes on Sam but Sam's eyes remained fixed on his brother, just as another man stepped up behind the doctor.

Panic gripped Sam as the crowd gathered around him, shutting out the sight of Dean. "No ambulance," he refuted, wanting to yell out his brother's name, the fear in his gut ensuring that the call would come out broken. Swallowing he managed to order, "Help me up," and he began to move his legs to begin that process. The doctor's hand on his back halted his progress. "Whoa, let's take it nice and slow. You have been through an ordeal."

'_An ordeal'?_ Sam wanted to scream. _Watching Dean hurt and almost killed so many times today that I've lost count, and you say I've been through an ordeal! You have no freakin' idea what an "ordeal' is pal!' _Knocking off the restraining hand, Sam rolled over and achieved a sitting position. Upright now, he was certain his eyes would land on Dean. Peering through the strangers gathered around him, he didn't catch sight of his brother's piercing green gaze, didn't find the mud encrusted boots and worn jeans Dean was wearing among the legs circling him. "Dean?" he called out, a revelation coming to him, making him ignore the instinct to appear calm, collected, unruffled by his accident in front of these strangers.

When no reply came back, Sam scrambled to his feet, shoving away the helping hands, ignoring the protest of his legs. Pushing through the crowd, his eyes frantically sought out the familiar sight of his brother, a sight he couldn't find. Not here surrounding him, not across the expansion of the park, not crossing among the trees on the outskirts of the park. "Dean!" he yelled, stalking forward, his eyes swinging around, desperate to see his brother standing calmly somewhere, to catch a glimpse of his brother's smirk and "gotcha Sammy" gleam in his eyes. "Dean," Sam's voice cracked as his worst fear was confirmed. Dean was gone.

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Climbing from the taxi, his heart in his throat, Sam felt tears prick his eyes. The Impala wasn't in the motel's parking lot, was no where to be found, just like his brother. Numbly crossing the lot, Sam came to stand in the space the Impala had occupied, looking like an abandoned, lost child. Cursing, Sam sank down on the parking space's cement marker and bowed his head.

'_I should have seen this coming! Should never have let go of his wrist!' _desperately wanting Dean to be there so that he could land a punch, could rail at him about his asinine protective tactics! '_I'm not the one in danger, the one that needs to be protected, you are, stupid! You are!'_

'_Think Sam, keep it together_,' Sam coached himself, took in a deep breath and raised his head. Calling Dean was out: the remnants of Dean's phone still littered their motel room carpet. Tracking Dean was like trying to catch the wind in his hands. Putting an APB out for the Impala was asking for his brother to end up in a State Penitentiary for the rest of his life, (somehow the murder rap would stick, regardless of the fact that the murdering Dean Winchester had supposedly died in St. Louis.)

"He'll be back," he reassured himself out loud, "Dean will come back," his eyes on the street as if the Impala would pull in right then to prove his point. But no black car streaked into the parking lot, Sam's cell phone didn't ring and Sam felt the terrible weight of being without his brother settle in his soul. "Dean, come back," he pleaded, his soft words stolen away by the wind.

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'_You're doing the right thing, the best thing. This is the only way to keep Sam safe,_' Dean assured himself, valiantly trying to lock away the sickness that gathered in his stomach at his betrayal and abandonment of his brother. '_Do you want Sam to die for you! Cause that was what was going to happen today if you didn't leave him behind!_' He yanked the Impala's wheel harder to the left than he meant, causing the tires to squeal as he ended up onto another street, his direction unmapped, unimportant.

But the memory of Sam there on the ground, clutching onto his wrist, would not go away. Nor would the way that Sam had pleadingly said his name as he had gained his feet at his brother's side, distancing himself for his escape. It didn't require the gift of perception to sense how urgently Sam wanted him to stay with him. '_He's in danger when he's with me. He can make it on his own. Leaving him behind was necessary_.'

Going around a delivery truck parked in his lane, Dean felt his rationale turn around and bite him. '_Is this the way Dad felt? Is this why he left me behind? To save me?_' It was a bitter pill to swallow; your heart being ripped out so that you could draw another breath of life, would keep drawing those breaths, even when you no longer wanted to. Dean cursed. Sam would not forgive him for this, not anytime soon. Not if he felt like Dean did about his own father's act of protective abandonment. This type of protection wounded even as it saved, spurred hatred despite the fact that it was done out of love, decimated what it strove to safeguard. And was the only thing Dean felt he had done right all day. Sometimes it sucked out loud to be Dean Winchester.

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For two years he had lived without Dean, without a call, without a postcard, without the pleasure of seeing that cocky smile grace his brother's face. It hadn't been easy, some days it had been the sharpest pain he had ever endured but he had done it. Now Sam couldn't contemplate how. Sure there had been Jess, his college curriculum, his other friends but none of that filled the hole that Dean had left. A hole he had agonizingly been reacquainted with these past two hours. Two hours without Dean at his side.

Having abandoned his dejected post in the parking lot, Sam had found their motel room stuffy and quiet and so lonely, entirely too lonely. His vision had blurred as it rested on their father's journal, feeling as if it was virtually Dean's last will and testament. "No!" he denied fiercely, throwing the bedside lamp across the room to shatter on the wall, feeling as if it were him shattering along with the ceramic. How had it come to this! Choosing separation instead of staying together? His father and now Dean had left him…just as he had left them four years ago. For the first time, he understood fully what his departure had done to his family, what it had cost his own soul.

Running his hands through his hair, Sam bowed his head, closing his eyes against the empty room. This reminded him too sharply of when Dean had had his heart attack. When Sam had come back to the motel, had sat there, alone, searching for a way to save Dean, despair clawing at his soul, and the very walls whispering that his brother was going to leave him forever. His head snapping up, Sam passionately vowed, "No!", stalking for the door, ready to tear the city apart to find Dean.

Once before he had found a way to save Dean, against all odds. He would simply do it again, today. And then again tomorrow and next week and next year, would do it for as long as he lived, as often as he had to. Dean was not going to die, he wouldn't let him. He was going to find his brother and no curse, no diverging futures, no honorable heroics of protection was ever going to separate them again. Sam swore that even his hope to return to college, to pick up his charade of normalcy would not tear them apart, not in their hearts, not where it counted. Phone calls would be exchanged, postcards would be mailed, visits would be a common occurrence. He would never again take Dean for granted. "We're a family, you jerk. We're sticking together from here on out," Sam groused, pressing his worry down with his resolve as he took to the streets in search of his brother.

That had been an hour ago. Hope shouldn't have been so easily intimidated by time but it was, Sam's was. Anything could have happened to Dean since the park. Anything! A million bloody scenarios played out in his head at each block he walked and they all ended the same way: him losing Dean. For a fleeting moment he contemplated jumping on a flight, tracking down Anna Corvante and forcing her to either lift her curse on his brother or draw her last breathe. It was a satisfying thought, its cold bloodedness not even setting off his moral alarm, not when Dean's life was in jeopardy.

'_It's not what Dean would want, a life taken so his would be spared. He is still drowning in guilt about Marshall Hall and that hadn't been a conscious exchange, his life for Hall's. But this…this murdering a woman to save him, Dean would bare the guilt even if I did the actual deed_.' And Sam knew it was no coincidence that Dean had driven the Impala as far away from Hanestown, New Mexico as he could get after their latest job. Whether that was to keep temptation from Dean himself or a preventative measure in case his little brother uncovered his secret, Sam did not know. What he did know was Dean wanted the woman left unharmed. '_He values the life of some woman who cursed him more than his own life. That's really reassuring, Dean. Really helps me to feel like you're out there fighting to stay alive.' _

Tucking his hands into his pockets and dropping his shoulders into a slouch, Sam scanned the bustling city around him, overwhelmed by its scope. Finding Dean in the city, a Dean that did not want to be found, now seemed such a lost cause. It would take some divine intervention to be able to reclaim his position at his brother's side. Sam wasn't above sending up a prayer or two. '_Please, God, let me find him before it's too late. Don't take Dean away from me too.'_

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Dean snarled, "Come on! Come on!", turning the Impala's ignition key again. For the fifth time he was treated with a sputter that refused to catch from his usually beloved engine. "Not you too!" he railed, focused on the car's gauges, oblivious to the gang graffiti that decorated the part of the city where the Impala had decided to betray him.

Climbing from the car, he slammed the car door with a level of force which would have gotten Sam banished. Roughly opening the hood, he leaned over the engine, hands reaching to tighten a hose. Instantly he yanked his fingers away, the fingertips singed. Waving his fingers as if to cool the burn, he muttered, "You're punishing me, aren't you! For leaving Sam, right?" He was about to try again to tighten the hose when reason struck him. "Oh great, now I'm carrying on a conversation with my car," he sighed aloud. Placing his hands on the upraised hood and bowing his head, he closed his eyes, hoping to get his crap together.

His eyes flew open as the cold metal barrel of a handgun pressed against his cheek. Without moving, he took in the situation. Five gangbangers were taking up stances around him. The early twenty year old white man with the silver Magnum bruising Dean's face radiated the energy of a leader.

"This must be my lucky day," the leader drawled, sliding the gun barrel under Dean's chin, "cause I've been thinkin' of gettin' me a sweet ride like this one." With purpose, the gun was cocked and rammed harder under Dean's chin, forcing Dean to raise his head, nearly blocking his ability to swallow normally. "But you, you're about to have a real bad day."

The words caused a sardonic smirk to spring onto Dean's face and a chuckle to escape from his throat. "Dude, I'm already having a bad day," he countered, beyond caring that he was leveling an arrogant 'bring it on' tone to a man that was fully prepared to send a round into his skull.

TBC

Thank you so much for reading!

A heartfelt thank you to all my wonderful reviewers! I'm running short on time this week and will be unable to personally reply back but I hope you all know how much your words encourage me! I appreciate every single review, every single thought.

Cheryl W.


	7. Chapter 7: Moving Violations

Sanctuary

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Sorry for the delay! I just couldn't get this chapter shaped up in time to post earlier than this.

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Chapter 7: Moving Violations

No matter how futile his search was proving to be, Sam couldn't go back to their motel room, not without Dean. To do so would seem an action of defeat, of acceptance, of suicide. For he had finally come to understand the truth: that his life hung in the balance as much as Dean's. If his brother didn't survive the day…he could hardly even _think_ about that without feeling a sob crawl up his throat, without his legs threatening to give out on him, without his heart skipping a beat. But against his best efforts at Stanford to eradicate components of his soul, Sam Winchester was still a realist deep down, where innocence had been sandblasted away by the undisputable proof that evil existed.

And it was that grain of his soul that accepted the possible outcome of the day even as his heart wailed at the betrayal of even the thought: _Dean could die._ It was the thought he had refused to acknowledge, outwardly, after Dean's electrocution, on the way to the faith healer, as Dean climbed onto Roy's stage. But it had burned in his soul, corroded away the light, strangled his every breath so it nearly matched Dean's struggling gasps in the middle of the night. Just as it was doing again today.

Each minute away from Dean was a minute Sam felt closer to the end of his endurance. Each whisper of his soul of, _Dean could already be dead, _took him another step along the path, his tread alighting in the footprints of the one navigating the trail ahead of him, just out of sight. It seemed right, to blindly follow, he had done it a thousand times before, in a hundred towns across the United States. Letting Dean take the lead came naturally to him, gave him comfort in a world where such luxuries were few and far between.

'_You're my brother and I would die for you_,' he had said, but now Sam understood the full extent of his bond with Dean. He would unflinchingly die to save his brother, he had known that truth after his first hunt. But only today did he admit even to himself that he would willing die _with_ Dean. And even if he should continue to draw breath after Dean had ceased to do so, an indispensable part of him would have died with his brother, a part that would leave him no longer Sammy and significantly less Sam. For all of his bluster and bravado, Sam didn't think he could survive not being Sammy, didn't want to contemplate living each day shackled to being just Sam. His past, his present, his future, Dean was the glue that kept it all together, kept him all together.

Unbidden, Dean's voice echoed in his head, '_Guess you'll be leaving town without me_.' Clenching his jaw, Sam rebelled at that suggestion fervently, hating the image that flickered in his mind of Dean, pale, bruised, accepting as he lay in the hospital bed. With renewed fury, he cursed his brother for not knowing, for not understanding, for never acknowledging that Sam would not be OK without him. That Sam would come undone without his strength to shelter and support him. That he would morph into a villain darker than Max because Max's hatred had been bred out of never knowing love but Sam's hatred would spring from the bitterness of having known love and helplessly watching as it was brutally taken away.

Coming to a halt amid the stream of people on the sidewalk, Sam darkly vowed, "No way, Dean." His brother was forbidden to submit to a tragic hero's quiet honorable fate. "We're leaving town together," his oath uttered aloud did not even faze the people on the sidewalk. Here in the city, he was just another freak who talked to himself, too common a trait to single him out.

With reinforced determination, Sam took up a post leaning against a private health club, his eyes discriminatingly scanning the four lanes of traffic. When sunlight glinted off the gleaming black paint of the Impala as it cruised down the street in the far lane, Sam jolted away from the wall as if he had come into contact with an electric current. God had heard his prayer after all! Setting off down the sidewalk at a full out run, pushing and dodging the crowds, Sam hungrily kept the Impala in sight. Sparing his glance to look what waited in the Impala's path, he realized that the next traffic light was green. Sam cursed. '_No! I'm not going to be this close only to lose Dean again!' _

In a turn of good luck, the light quickly went yellow to red, causing the Chevy's tires to squeal as the vehicle came to a halt toeing the white line. Sam felt lightheaded with relief. Giving no thought to the three lanes of traffic that separated him from his brother, he bolted out onto the street. The honking of a horn brought his surrounding into focus, right before a bumper took his leg out from under him, the momentum sending him flying onto the hood of the car.

His concentration barely derailed, Sam, still sprawled out on the car's hood, sought out the sight of the Impala, now only 200 yards away in the next lane. Too desperate to register any pain, he slid from the car, dodged another car before making it to the other sidewalk. Breaking out into a wild dash down the sidewalk toward the Impala, he was nearly close enough for his fingers to touch the glistening black trunk when the Impala surged forward.

Sam choked back his panicked call of his brother's name, knowing that there was no guaranty that Dean would welcome him with open arms. More than likely, Dean would cut through the traffic and disappear back into the urban landscape. Sam put everything he had, everything he was into his legs, into making his strides longer, into making him quicker, into closing the distance between he and Dean. He couldn't spare the time or effort for moral compunctions as he knocked down at least two pedestrians. Thanks to the heavy traffic impeding his brother's usual attempt to break the sound barrier, Sam came up to be neck and neck with the Impala. He was reaching for the back door handle, when he heard it: the Rap music. Rap music pulsating out of the four open windows. '_Rap music coming out of the Impala's sacred speakers!_ _What the heck! Dean's listening to rap music!_' This revelation sent a chill down Sam's spine. Was Dean so traumatized by the day's events that he was abandoning what he knew, what he loved!

When the Impala came to a halt for another light, Sam nearly ran by it. Stifling his momentum, Sam stumbled to the passenger side door, intending to drop into the car without giving Dean a chance to object. But his yank on the door proved in vain. It was locked. Changing tactics, Sam gripped the bottom of the window frame and stuck his head in the window. "Dean.." the rest of his words died in his throat.

It was a toss up who was more surprised by the current situation, the gangleader in the driver's seat or Sam. Sam recovered first, his eyes blazing with retribution and fear. "What have you done with my brother! Where is he!" Sam accused, his knuckles going white with his increased grip on the Impala.

"Get your hands off my ride," the gangbanger railed, pulling his gun from his waist band and aiming it at Sam's face. "Now step off, dude."

Fear made Sam's blood run cold and it had nothing to do with the gun barrel pointed at his head or the thought of dying. No, it was the look in the man's eyes, as if committing murder was something he was comfortable with, had maybe done before, even that day. _Dean!_ Sam's mind screamed, conjuring up mental pictures of Dean lying somewhere shot, bleeding, dying.

When the Impala moved forward, Sam didn't even hesitate. He leaped head first into the window of the Impala. His legs dangling outside of the car, Sam seized onto the man's hand that held the gun and shoved it upward, turning the aim of the gun to the ceiling of the Impala. Liberated from being the focus of the gun, Sam climbed the whole way into the car. With his left hand busy grappling for the gun, Sam sent his right hand chopping into the man's larynx.

Abandoning his hold of the gun into Sam's steely grip, the thief wrapped his hand around his throat, panicking as breath refused to travel through his air passageways. It barely registered with him when the steering wheel under his left hand was yanked to the right, sending the car down an alley.

Achieving the privacy of the alley, Sam slammed the Impala into park. Turning his full attention on the thief, he cocked the gun and violently rammed it into the thief's neck. "Where. Is. My. Brother! This is _his_ car," Sam snarled, his rage the only thing keeping his panic from slipping its reign.

His voice raspy from abuse, the gangleader wheezed, "I found the car…hood was up…no one was.."

Without warning, Sam's left hand shot out, crushing the man's throat, halting the lying words. Leaning menacingly closer, Sam hissed, "You tell me where my brother is, NOW, or I swear …" and his eyes lost all their light as he pressed the gun barrel harder against the man's neck as he continued, "I'll make you wish I would just pull the trigger."

The gangbanger had seen eyes like Sam's before…usually right before someone died. His answer was a croak from his constricted throat, "Tucker and 4th Street. That's where I left the dude."

Instead of earning a reprieve from the strangulation, Sam's grip intensified. A fire kindled in Sam's dark eyes. "What do you mean _left_!" he lowly demanded, his heart pounding louder than the sounds of the city.

"I didn't.." the man choked, gasping, "he's not dead," his right hand coming up to grip Sam's wrist for mercy.

A tidal wave of relief swept through Sam, making him uncertain if a laugh or a sob was caught in his throat. Dropping his crushing hold on the man's throat, he ordered, "Give me your wallet." Though confusion shone in his eyes, the thief complied. Snatching the wallet from the man's trembling grasp, Sam flipped it open to the man's driver's license. Then, his deadly eyes lancing into the man's, he venomously promised, "Todd, if my brother is hurt, I'm going to show up at your house on 392 Filmont Street and the last thing you're ever going to see is me. You got that!"

A nod was the only response the pale man could manage. He had danced with death often enough in his young life but this, this man looked like he knew the reaper personally and would happily set up a meeting for him.

"Get out!" Sam commanded. Reaching across the man, he opened the driver's door and shoved the stunned man out of the car. The thief landed on the pavement but almost instantly he scrambled to his feet and ran out of the alley.

Sliding behind the steering wheel, Sam slammed the driver's door shut, put the car in reverse and barreled from the alley backwards. The car didn't even slow down as it obeyed Sam's demand to leap forward, it's engine rumbling as it streaked down the street. The next moment, it slid sideways as Sam punched on the breaks to bring the car to a halt in a diagonal position across two lanes of the highway, effectively blocking the path of a taxi. His eyes piercing across the interior of the Impala to the taxi driver's stunned expression, Sam yelled, "How do I get to Tucker and 4th Street?"

An enraged scowl erupted on the taxi driver's face as he threw open his door and menacingly approached the Impala. "What do I look like, Map Quest! Now move your car!"

Withdrawing a fifty dollar bill from the gangbanger's wallet, Sam banished the Franklin. "Tell me how to get to Tucker and 4th street!"

Instantly the driver leaned in the Impala, snatching the bill as he readily provided, "Five blocks back that way," his hand pointing over his shoulder, "take Perry Avenue until you come to 4th street and then go three blocks until it intersects with Tucker." The taxi driver had barely cleared himself from the Impala's interior before Sam set the classic car into motion. Like a stunt driver, Sam swung the Impala into an impossibly tight U turn, uncaring that two cars barely managed to slam on their breaks to avoid a collision. Heading in the right direction, Sam put the Impala through its paces, his speed rivaling his brother's at his most reckless.

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Dean wasn't sure what pissed him off more, the fact that the Impala instantly rumbled to life for the gangbanger or the sight of his car streaking down the street, leaving him lying on the pavement. He knew enough to be grateful at being _alive_ to _watch_ the car disappear around the block. It had been a near thing. The gangbanger had been willing to take him out, he had seen it in his eyes. Only the well timed drive by of a rival gang had stayed the gangleader's pressure on the trigger.

With his followers squawking in his ear to split before the other gang took a run at them, the leader found himself suddenly pressed for time. Getting into Dean's personal space, the man quirked, his breath stirring Dean's hair, "Guess your day's looking up," right before he slammed the gun barrel against Dean's temple, sending the hunter crashing to the ground. Turning to his troops, the leader ordered, "Take off," his words barely out of his mouth before the four men made a run for it. Swaggering to the Impala, the gangleader sank into the seat with a smile and turned the key that Dean hadn't bothered to remove.

Lying in the street, his elbows propping him up, Dean couldn't help but smirk as he watched the would-be thief leap into the dead car. '_Sorry about your luck, dude_.' However, the gangleader was rewarded with the growling purr of the car's engine. Instantly Dean hurled a string of low curses at his usually loyal Impala. Then, for the second time that day, a vehicle's front grillwork headed his way. With a growl, Dean rolled toward the sidewalk. His back impacted with the sidewalk right before he was blasted with the whoosh of air as the Impala streaked by him.

He lay there a moment, his breath knocked out of him and the pain throbbing in every nerve ending. Then, using the sidewalk as a lever, he pulled himself up to sit on the curb. Pressing the heel of his hand against his throbbing head, he wished his vision would snap back into focus.

For a fleeting moment, he thought about calling Sam but just as quickly he shut that idea down. Sam was safe, he wasn't going to put him back in jeopardy just because he was suddenly feeling utterly lost. '_You are pathetic!'_ he chided.

Insisting that his body cooperate even as his mind was determined to betray him, he used his hands to shove off of the sidewalk, providing the momentum to propel himself to his feet. But he found his body to be as rebellious as his mind.

When his world spun, Dean bowed his head and clamped his eyes shut, stumbling to the left a moment before he locked his legs, willed his feet to stay under him, for the cement to not come up and meet him. Even as his body obeyed him, his mind continued to play with the very welcome idea of reuniting with Sam. _'I've been without Sam before, and I've been without Dad. I am a survivor," _he told himself, again and again.

Opening his eyes, he felt relief as the world stilled even if it refused to sharpen. Putting one foot in front of the other, he hated the way his stomach flipped almost as much as he hated the brutally introspective inclination of his mind. Putting his hand against the wall of a liquor store, he eyed up his surrounding and fought hard to not flinch as an unsolicited revelation struck a blow he had no barriers against. '_But you've never been without the Impala before,_' some voice taunted in his head. The Impala was home to him. It was the only home he had known for the past twenty two years, was the only home he cherished. And now it was gone, taken, a casualty to his curse. Silently Dean sent out an apology to the classic car for not protecting it better. He hated to think what his father would say when he learned Dean had just stood there while some punk stole the car he had given into his care. "Can't wait to hear that lecture," he grumbled, pushing off the wall and again moving down the block with more of a drunken shuffle than his usual swagger.

'_That's if I'm alive for Dad **to** lecture_,' he clarified, his body merrily reminding him of the abuse it had already endured. '_And dusk is still a little less than two hours away. A lot can happen between now and then. The old crone's curse is working overtime this year_.' Just the few hours that he had been separated from Sam he had nearly been in two car accidents and then there was the Impala's betrayal. Dean tried not to hold the Impala to blame for its part in the curse, but sadly it hurt worse than all the other events in the day. The Impala was supposed to be on his side, was supposed to be his refuge. Even when his father and brother had left him high and dry, the Impala hadn't. Until now.

'_Great. I'm gonna cry over a car! Wouldn't Sammy love to see that! He'd be so proud to know he's turned me into some chick!' _Dean swallowed, hard, shoving all his emotions down to the corner of his soul where all unpleasant, unwelcome and unsought after truths were barricade. He wasn't going to get all choked up over the Impala, he wasn't going to throw himself a pity party and he most definitely wasn't going to let the curse be the end of him. He wouldn't let Marshall Hall's death be for nothing, or Layla's. He owed them a better return for their lives than that.

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With tires squealing, Sam made the turn onto Tucker Street, his breath loud in the car, his heart pounded in his chest, his eyes scanning the sidewalks on both sides of the street. Dean had to be here, somewhere, nearby. "Come on, Dean. Where are you?" his voice sounded desperate even to his own ears.

Forcing the Impala to crawl down the street, Sam felt doubt climb into his head. Maybe the gangbanger had lied, maybe Dean wasn't here, had never been here. Or maybe the thief had spoken only part of the truth, the part about "leaving" Dean here. Maybe the lie was in what condition in which he had "left" Dean. Swallowing convulsively, Sam contemplated parking the Impala and checking every alley…under the garbage, in the dumpsters.

His hands tightened onto the Chevy's steering wheel. '_No! Don't think like that! Dean's fine, Dean's not hurt._' But immediately he remembered how false that reassurance was. Truth was, Dean **_was_** hurt, his arm, his leg, his head, his ear, even his butt hadn't escape the curse's manipulations. '_Ok, alright, but he's not dead_.' His devil's advocate again reared it's head, only too happy to let the realist Sam Winchester run free. '_Why! Because you don't want him to be? Because you think he's indestructible? Because you can't imagine living without him? People die. Like you told Dean, you can't save everyone. You couldn't save Jess. Maybe you're too late to save Dean.'_

Shaking his head in denial at his own betraying thoughts, Sam locked his jaw, refusing to let the sob escape that was cutting off his airways. '_No. No! I know how this is going to play out. I'm going to find Dean and I'm going to save him, no matter what it takes.' _With that resolve burning in his heart, Sam kept the Impala purring along, and purposefully refused to allow his eyes to drift to the now seemingly malevolent alleys.

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The sound of the rumbling car engine brought Dean's head swinging around to the street behind him. The too fast motion sent his vision back to blurry mode but even without 20/20 vision he recognized the car. His low curse rent the air. In hindsight, he wished he had thought to blend in with the neighborhood instead of striding along, open, easy to find.

'_I should have thought of this! Should have seen it coming! Especially today!'_ Suddenly, his patience sputtered out. He was tired of running, of being a victim of the curse's machination, of fearing what fate had in store for him. Coming to a stop, he turned to watch the car's approach, a defiant look blazing in his eyes. _'I'm done running.'_

But his breath caught in his throat as the rival gang's car seemed set to drive right by him, oblivious to his presence. At first, it didn't register with Dean. The two gang members were practically hanging out of the passenger side windows, their guns held in loose practiced hands. They were gunning for someone…just not him. His eyes flying up the sidewalk, Dean saw, for the first time, a young boy not more than fourteen making his way quickly down the sidewalk toward him, his head down, his stance tense, his gang colors embossed on his jacket like a uniform. The same colors Dean's earlier assailants had sported.

His gaze flickering from the car to the boy, Dean felt his stomach lurch. If he didn't do something the kid was going to get murdered right before his eyes. His feet were eating up the pavement toward the kid even as he yelled, "Get down!" '_Don't let me be too late! Please, God, don't let me be too late!' _screaming through his head.

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It all happened so fast, almost too fast for Sam to comprehend, certainly too fast to endure the myriad of emotions that assailed him. Joy, confusion, dread, fear and despair, they crashed against him one after the other, threatening to sweep away his very soul. The only sound that he could make, the only coherent word he could form was "Dean!", the sound a yell, a cry, a scream.

Only seconds prior, Sam had urged the Impala down another block, his throat constricting tighter with each empty block, every search for his brother that came up empty. His eyes scanned his lane's sidewalk before flickering over to inspect the opposite lane's sidewalk. And that's when joy, the level of which he had never known, washed over him. _Dean!_ Dean was walking down the other sidewalk toward him, an alive Dean, a Dean who was unharmed, or at least able to stay on his feet, to walk down the sidewalk, albeit more slowly than his usual determined pace. Tears of immense joy and relief nearly overflowed Sam's eyes.

Sending the Impala lurching forward, his eyes fixed possessively on his brother, Sam watched in confusion as Dean stopped and looked behind him. Even from the distance that still divided he and Dean, Sam could read his brother's tension, could _feel _Dean gearing up to face a threat. It was enough of a reaction to pry Sam's gaze from Dean to search for the peril his brother sensed. The 1980 Chevy Camaro coming up behind Dean was a moving advertisement for a gang, its colors and decals covering every inch of the classic car. And it was slowing down.

With a curse, Sam stomped his foot flat on the gas pedal. Barreling toward Dean, Sam intended to do whatever it took to intercede in the gang's plans for his brother, whether that meant leaping out of the car and getting into a fist fight, his back against Dean's, or if it meant cutting off the other car before it reached his brother. Then he heard Dean's yell but the words didn't register with him, not until Dean began to run for all he was worth, not until Sam saw the fourteen year old kid, not until he realized Dean was not the gang's target, the boy was.

Suddenly, Dean's words when they were surrounded by a forest with a Wendigo in its dark depths, came back to Sam sharply. '_I think Dad wants us to pick up where he left off, saving people...the family business._' If speech would have been possible for Sam he would have bellowed 'NO!' as he realized Dean's intentions. Saving people, the family business, it was all Dean knew, was a part of him, an interwoven piece of his heart and soul. And it was the part of his brother that terrified Sam the most.

Recognizing with dread that Dean would reach the kid in a few more strides, maybe even before the gang made their more, Sam despised his brother's compassion. Too far away to intervene in time, Sam planned to sound the car's horn, hoping to distract the gang's focus. But before his fingers could come to rest on the horn, another sound erupted in the nearly deserted streets. Gun fire. "Dean!" Sam screamed, horrified as Dean's body jerked forward as bullets slammed into his back seconds after he had stepped purposefully into the line of fire. The impact of the bullets and his previous momentum sent Dean crashing into the boy, sending them both down to the pavement. Neither boy nor man moved as the Camaro roared past them.

TBC

Thank you for reading and as always, I would love to hear from you!

PS. I really am wrapping this story up…I have the next chapter done (with a little overhaul required) and then it's either a big finale chapter or 2 smaller chapters in which I pretty much know what I want to happen. However, I am undecided about how emotional I want to take the story, and what the conversations should be include: anger, fear, reconciliation (You're getting some kinda of sappy brotherly mush of some degree for certain…that's just the kinda writer I am.). So I would appreciate any opinions on what is realistic or what your preferences would be. (In other words…HELP!)

Cheryl W.


	8. Chapter 8: Promises Made

Sanctuary

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Thank you so much for the wonderful support I got for last chapter and all of the suggestions, votes and outpouring of trust you showed in me. I can't tell you how much I appreciated every single word of every single review!

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Chapter 8: Promises Made

Witnessing the bullets strike Dean, seeing his invincible brother fall and not get up, not move, Sam implored, '_God let me wake up! Let this just be some sick nightmare!'_ A nightmare that would end like so many before had, with Dean shaking him awake, with his brother's concerned green eyes offering him comfort, with Dean's very presence lending him the strength to break the crippling hold of the nightmares, of even the visions.

With cruel clarity Sam knew the Impala's steering wheel felt too real in his tight grip, that the anguish ripping through his chest was too sharp to simply be a triggered reaction to some conjured tragedy. This was not just a trick of his merciless mind, able to be banished by strong but gentle hands jarring him back to reality, by a look from eyes that anchored his soul.

Even with the truth cutting off his breath, Sam _wanted_ to feel those strong but gentle hands wrap around his arms. _Needed_ that touched, now more than ever. But the owner of those hands was not hovering by his side, was not on the brink of dispelling his terror. And the thought that those hands would never perform those tasks ever again, that Sam would never again be immersed in the rightness, in the joy of having Dean at his side…it was the end of Sam's world, the end of the life he had known, the end of the life he hoped to have in the future.

Now, with every second that the Impala sped determinedly but seemingly without success toward its owner, with every second Dean didn't move, more of Sam's soul flickered out. Its very foundation shuddering, unable to endure the prospect that an integrate part of its whole could be stolen away. A part deeply and intricately fused into his soul, the stake that was Dean's, had always been Dean's. Even when Sam was at college, he had fiercely clung to the part of Dean he kept within him, hidden, guarded, cherished. The memories, the laughter, the bond, it all lay nestled in Sam's heart, untarnished by separation or time or words spoken in anger, seemingly shatterproof. Like Dean.

In Sam's soul, the unbreakable was breaking. Glass was raining from the heavens.

When only a few hundred feet separated him from Dean, Sam sent the Impala careening across the street. Impassively, he watched the boy wiggle out from under the dead weight of his brother and run away. Only when the front tires of the Chevy crested the sidewalk did the vehicle come to an abrupt halt. Mechanically cutting the engine, Sam vaulted from the car, uncaring that the door was left open. Nothing mattered but Dean, getting to Dean, saving Dean.

His long legs ate up the distance between him and his unmoving brother but all the while his head was screaming, '_Too late! You're too late! You weren't fast enough_!' Sam dropped to his knees beside Dean's still body. His brother's face was turned from him, hidden, his back was not. The two bullet holes were brutally unmistakable. A choked shriek of "No!" ruptured from the younger brother.

Sam's trembling right hand ghosted over the holes but settled on Dean's hair, tenderly, possessively. Sam let his heart's agony blaze away his ability to snap into medic mode because he knew, on some deeper level, a level he refused to acknowledge, what his medical training was telling him, what his heart refused to hear. Two bullets, their placement, Dean's utter stillness…traitorous tears were slipping down Sam's face.

"No," the word shattered as Sam shook his head. "Dean, no!" he denied, pleaded, begged. "I'm not leaving town without you!" he growled, eyes blazing with resolve as he forced his hands to be logical, to be sure of themselves, to put their medical skills into practice, to save Dean, even if that meant ripping him from another reaper's tainted grasp.

Sliding his badly shaking hand down Dean's hair to the side of his neck, Sam felt for his brother's pulse, his own heartbeat thumping painfully in his chest. He nearly sobbed when his brother's pulse tapped against his fingers. Hope sprang into his soul and he latched onto it tenaciously. Dean was not leaving him!

Gripping the bottom of Dean's shirt, Sam braced himself for the sight of his brother's wounds. Then, when he felt in control, he ripped the fabric to gain better access to his brother's back. Surprise and confusion and hope tangled in his brain. The bullet holes through his brother's outer shirt and even his t-shirt underneath were irrefutable. But there was no blood, anywhere.

With desperate motions, Sam lifted up Dean's t-shirt. His hands fisted in his brother's shirt, a sob burst from Sam, ripping his insides apart. And then he bowed over Dean, his forehead coming to rest on his brother's head.

A Kevlar vest, Dean was wearing a Kevlar vest. The two bullets lodged in the bullet proof vest vivid evidence of how close he had truly come to losing his brother. Another sob of relief, of near hysteria, of anguish to near the surface wracked Sam before he choked it off, envisioning Dean's reaction if he should awake then, his brother practically lying on him, blubbering like a baby. The thought put a bittersweet smile on Sam's lips as he sat up, his hands refusing to release their death grip on Dean's shirt.

The sound of a siren brought the rest of the world into focus for Sam. Sirens, cops, interrogations, hospitals, it spurred Sam into motion. Wrapping his right hand around Dean's shoulder, Sam, with tender care, rolled Dean unto his back, careful to brace his brother's neck with his still trembling left hand. Presented with his brother's all too pale face again marred with blood, and callously denied the sight of the green gaze that could make him believe everything would always be alright, Sam's breath caught.

"Stay with me, Dean," he entreated, his voice drenched in yearning desperation as he gripped Dean's arms and levered his brother into a sitting position. When Dean's head limply fell to the side, Sam nearly shattered. It was too reminiscent to what had happened in that basement after his electrocution, the way Dean had folded in his arms, limp, broken, nearly lifeless.

Pushing down the emotions that threatened to drown him, Sam pulled Dean over his shoulder, rose with his precious burden and used his long legs to return quickly to the Impala. Opening the passenger door, he leaned over and deposited his fragile cargo into the car, tenderly settling his brother's head back on the seat. Slamming the door, Sam ran to the driver's side, leaped in and had the car barreling down the street an instant later.

Feeling the impending presence of the police cruiser whose siren still rent the air, Sam swung the car into a street to the right, causing Dean to toppled over towards him. Sam flung his right arm out to brace Dean, resulting in his brother's ashen face coming to rest in the crook of his bent arm. That sight crumbled more of Sam's barriers and he had to swallow to keep himself locked down. Tearing his look from his brother back to the road, Sam didn't attempt to reposition Dean. Instead the fingers of his right hand stroked Dean's hair, reassuring himself that Dean was still here, that he hadn't left him, wouldn't be leaving him. Hoping his touch registered with Dean, that his brother knew he was there for him, Sam softly pledged, "You're safe now, Dean." His brother was safe and was going to continue to be safe, Sam would make certain of that.

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Afraid he would jar Dean from his slumped position against him, Sam turned the Impala into the motel parking lot with more care than he had even exercised during his driver's license test. It felt fitting to pull into the parking spot he had sat in hours ago, wanting his brother with him so badly that it had physically hurt. Cutting the engine, Sam supported Dean's neck with one hand while his other hand latched onto his brother's arm and reluctantly he eased Dean away from him. When he was certain Dean would stay upright in the seat, Sam slid his hands free of Dean, bolted from the driver's side and ran for the passenger side.

Opening the Impala's other door, Sam leaned into the car, pulled his brother onto his shoulders and with a firm hold on Dean's legs and the left arm that dangled over his chest, Sam eased Dean from the car. Pushing the door shut with his knee, Sam headed for the stairs, carrying his brother on his shoulders, his white knuckled grip on Dean's left arm and legs as they limply draped over him hard enough to bruise. But that didn't register with Sam. Coiled terror still tethered itself to his soul. Dean was not supposed to be this still, ever. He was not supposed to feel so…..so fragile in his baby brother's grasp. In fact, his baby brother was _never _supposed to do the carrying in the relationship, or the protecting. Dean would have said that was an unwritten rule of their brotherhood.

It was all wrong! It wasn't right that Dean wasn't conscious to gripe at the broken rule. How desperately Sam needed to hear his brother's voice, to hear him demand to be put down, even a moan from Dean would lighten his heart.

As Sam began to climb the stairs, he struggled to correctly distribute his altered weight for the task. He was in the middle of a round of silent curses at having a second floor room when the step under his right foot broke free of its foundation. Sam toppled forward. Even as he fell, he refused to relinquish even one of his hand holds on his brother, determined that no more harm would come to Dean. With the metal stairs rushing towards his face, Sam lifted his bent arms forward, forcing the triceps of his arms to take the brunt of the impact. He yelped in startled pain as his right knee made harsh contact with a lower step.

Sprawled out on the stairs, his unconscious, injured brother draped over his shoulders, Sam fought to repress the scream that was building in his chest. Perceiving this latest incident was just more of the curse's handiwork, he raged, '_Just STOP! Leave him alone! He doesn't deserve this!_' Clenching his jaw and tightening his grip on Dean, Sam pushed off the stairs, made it to his feet and forged ahead. Coming to the second floor landing, he kept to the inside of the open walkway, not wanting to risk…well anything that would send them over the ineffectual railing bordering the walkway.

Reaching their room, Sam realized his room key was tucked neatly in his jeans' pocket. For a fleeting moment, he contemplated kicking the door in but logic prevailed. There was no telling what trouble might come knocking on their door before the day was over, it would be stupid to make the lock useless. With hesitation and regret, Sam pried his right hand from Dean's upper arm and sent it digging into his pocket for the key.

He tried to not take notice of the way his hand shook as he slid the key into the lock. Turning the key, Sam opened the door. Again his hand latched onto Dean's arm as he crossed into the room. Coming to the first bed, Sam leaned over to ease Dean unto the mattress, his hand sliding to brace his brother's head and position it comfortably on the pillow. Finding that he was unable to move, Sam, his whole focus on Dean, leaned over and rested his right hand on Dean's chest, his other gripping the bedspread tightly.

The light of the late afternoon sun slipped through the still open door to caress Dean's blood stained, slack face. To Sam it felt like a mocking threat. Today the sunlight was their enemy, its touch a sharp reminder that the day was not over, dusk had yet to fall. The curse still had over an hour to make good on its threat. The thought broke Sam from his frozen stance by Dean's bed. Pulling his hand from Dean's chest, he crossed the room and snapped the door shut, banishing the sunlight. Immediately he flicked on the light switch, the low watt light bulbs deceptively softening the harsh appearance of his brother.

With his jaw set, he headed for the bathroom, hastily grabbing the supplies he would need. Coming to the bedside stand on Dean's left side, he ruthlessly shoved the alarm clock radio, the free writing pad embossed with the motel's logo, the menus of the local restaurants that delivered and the free guide to the city unto the floor and strategically lined up his meager, inadequate supplies. He cursed lowly as he realized what was missing off the stand, the lamp, the lamp he had thrown across the room, the lamp whose cord was still plugged in and was buried in between the headboard and the mattress, leading to the shattered lamp on the floor by the door.

Deciding that the overhead lights would have to be enough to work by, Sam focused on his next move. With trepidation, he knew it required him to leave Dean's side, to make a trip to the car to retrieve the first aid kit. Leaving Dean, even if it were for mere moments, was the very last thing Sam wanted to do. Not with the curse still unswerving in its desire to kill his brother, and not with Dean so still, looking so fragile, being so vulnerable.

'_I can't do it. I can't leave him, not now, not yet. I can wait to tend properly to his injuries, until dusk falls, until he is safe from the curse's manipulations.' _His decision made, Sam carefully perched on the bed by Dean's hip. Soaking a washcloth in the water he had put in the ice bucket, he leaned over Dean and gently dabbed at his brother's bloody temple, attempting to uncover the true source of the blood caked onto Dean's face.

Sam's hand jerked back as Dean winced, drew in a sharp breath, uttered a cough, and then his eyes blinked open. It was so reminiscent to Dean's awakening in the asylum after Sam had shot him with rock salt that Sam's breath caught. Surprised, confused green eyes latched onto him. Having his connection with Dean reestablished, joy and overwhelming relief washed over Sam, causing the pressure in his chest to vanish. His voice soft, trembling, Sam greeted, "Hey," a tremulous smile on his lips.

"Sam?" Dean croaked, his eyes scanning his surrounding, his disorientation growing. "What…? How…?" And then his eyes flew to Sam, recollection beginning to blaze in them. "The boy…the kid on the street! Is he…" and he began to rise from the bed, fear lurking in his eyes and a wince flashing over his face.

Putting his hand to Dean's chest, Sam tenderly yet firmly pressed Dean down onto the mattress. "He's fine, Dean," shocked to hear gruff anger in his own voice. Adopting a more congenial tone, he clarified, "Not a scratch on him if the way he took off down the street after the shooting is any indication." He forced another small smile onto his lips, the warmth of which didn't reach his dark eyes.

With relief, Dean sank back more heavily onto the mattress, closing his eyes and swallowing audibly. '_The kid isn't dead. I did something right today_.' When the hand that Sam had on his chest clenched onto his shirt with something akin to desperation and his brother's raw voice croaked, "Dean!" Dean's eyes flew open. The distraught, fearful look in Sam's eyes was like a punch to his gut, igniting his protective instincts. "Sammy, I'm alr.." he began to reassure, intending to reinforce his words by gripping Sam's wrist with his right hand, but a cry of pain decimated his words as agony awakened in his arm. Clamping his jaw shut, he breathed shallowly, his body rigid, his nerves coiled as he willed the pain to dissipate.

Alarmed at Dean's yelp of pain, Sam questioned with the gentle voice he reserved for times when his fear for Dean threatened to overwhelm him, "What is it? What hurts?" His hand tightened more firmly in Dean's shirt while his other hand cupped the side of Dean's neck, his eyes searching Dean's, attempting to gauge his brother's level of pain.

"Arm," Dean breathed through his gritted teeth, looking to the offending limb as he stubbornly began to force it from the bed again. Raising his left arm, Dean intended to clamp his hand around the source of pain like a tourniquet, to do something to minimize the agony.

Catching both of Dean's wrists in his hands, Sam pressed each arm back upon the bed with gentle care. "Just lay still, Dean. Let me have a look," Sam soothed, coming off the bed and quickly scampering to the other side. His breath hitched in his throat. The white sheet under his brother's right arm was turning red. _'I missed something! I didn't notice…_' his self recrimination fell silent as he noticed the hole in the jacket's sleeve, right at Dean's right bicep. "Dean.." he choked out, sounding so much like the seven year old he had once been, the child who had burst into tears at the sight of his older brother, lying on a forest floor in Pennsylvania, bleeding profusely, his breath labored. His eyes flying to Dean's, Sam barely kept his voice from cracking apart, "you've been shot."

Through his agony, regardless of his own feelings about having a bullet rip into his arm, Dean coolly retorted, "Yeah well, that's not a new one," attempting to ease the panic nearly overwhelming his brother's level of control. His eyes flicked down to his arm, unable to see the damage but sure able to feel it.

Dean's indifference to the knowledge that he was shot nearly smashed through Sam's emotional flood gates. "Dean! This isn't rock salt!" his trembling hands reaching hesitatingly for the bullet wound.

Without pulling his eyes from his arm, Dean countered lowly, "I'm not talking about rock salt, Sam."

Sam froze, his hands hovering above his brother's bloody sleeve, his shocked look fixed on Dean's face. Sam knew the variety of injuries his brother had endured, could recite them the way some people recited the states of the US. Gunshot wound was not among them…had not been among them four years ago when he left for college. Nausea swept through Sam. _'He was shot before! Dean was shot before! And I wasn't there, I didn't even know about it!'_

When Sam answered his confession with silence, Dean looked up, his eyes skimming his brother's features. It didn't take much insight to label the emotions running rampant in his brother's mind: guilt and shock. '_Just great. I just sent Sammy on another guilt trip, all expenses paid. I'm really wracking up the 'who's the worst big brother' points today.' _Before he could find the words to make things better, Sam was speaking.

Shoving his emotions aside, Sam focused on what was most important, making Dean alright. "We need to get this jacket off you so I can tend to your arm," his voice gentle even as it held resolve. Nothing would stop him from easing Dean's pain, of ensuring his brother was safe and would remain safe.

Relieved when determination overrode his brother's guilt, Dean agreed with Sam's plan of action with a pained, "yeah." Using his left arm, he began to lever himself into a sitting position. Instantly his brother's arm slid behind his shoulders, aiding him in his task. Every part of Dean's body protested the movement, would have opposed **any **movement. Without warning, piercing pain shot through his chest, cutting off his breath as if a boa constrictor had wrapped itself around his torso. Somewhere his mind diagnosed, cracked ribs, even as his vision abandoned color for a white washed view of the world.

Feeling the jolt of agony sweep through his brother's body, watching Dean's complexion go nearly translucent, Sam let his honed reflexes take over. Quickly, he slid onto the bed, taking up a seated position behind his brother. The next second, Dean's head lolled backward to land on his left shoulder before Dean's body went slack in his grip. "Dean!" Sam exclaimed in shock and terror, wrapping his arms around his brother, his eyes swinging to his brother's face now inches from his own.

"Don't yell, Sammy," Dean mumbled, his eyes closed, his body's pain receptors nearly taking him on that crappy ride to unconsciousness that he had ridden too often that day.

Squeezing his eyes tight in relief, Sam forced himself to loosen his frantic grip on his brother, knowing that Dean's body could not bear such rough handling right now. "I've got you Dean," he vowed gently by Dean's ear, opening his eyes and turning his head to view his brother's white face as his head rested on his shoulder. "You're alright," he reassured, forcing his voice to be firm, certain, unwavering. He watched as a smirk pulled onto his brother's features, the head that rested on his shoulder rolled toward him and green eyes met his.

"Alright?" Dean scoffed, going for incredulous but it came out more a croak of pain. "You have a funny definition of alright. I've been shot, Sammy."

Recognizing his brother's attempt to downplay his pain, Sam forced a matching smirk onto his lips, "It's just a flesh wound."

"Yeah but it's my flesh," Dean forced his voice into a whine and brought his head off Sam's shoulder. For the second time his world turned white. Opting for black over white, he shut his eyes and swallowed hard, determined to not get sick. Sam's hand gently came to brace the left side of his neck and he found his head eased back onto his brother's shoulder.

"Just stay still for a few minutes, Dean," Sam's voice cracked, feeling pain tear through his chest at the sight of a vulnerable, hurting Dean.

A moment later, when Dean broke the silence, his voice held a level of anguished surrender that shredded Sam's soul. "Please tell me it's past dusk, Sam."

It took three swallows before Sam could find his voice, "Soon," its rough quality doing little to mask his raw emotions, his arm unconsciously wrapping tighter around Dean's chest.

Pulling on a grin, Dean snorted, "Soon, huh? You paying me back for all those road trips where I lied and told you we would be there soon?"

"And we drove for another fourteen hours you mean!" Sam rejoined, knowing the reaction was expected, even needed.

"Don't exaggerate, Sammy," and Dean slowly opened his eyes, relieved to see the room stay in color, though the color scheme of greens and browns was nothing to rave about. "It was only twelve hours."

Sam snorted and marginally shook his head, letting his right hand drop away from Dean's neck and settle on Dean's right shoulder. "Can we move now, get your jacket off?" he gently asked.

"What's this 'we' stuff, kemo sabe" Dean groused even as he lifted his head and made to sit up.

Bracing Dean with one hand, Sam worked to slide the jacket sleeve off of Dean's left arm with his other hand. When Dean's breath hitched, Sam felt like a sucker punch had landed into his solar plexus. His jaw clenched, Sam forced himself to accomplish his task amid his brother's pain. Maneuvering the jacket free from Dean's back, Sam quietly said, "I'm going to move so you can lie down, alright?"

"'kay," was Dean's nearly inaudible agreement, his tone a gasp of air.

Slowly, Sam began to move from behind his brother, his arm bracing Dean until he was out of the way enough to ease Dean back onto the mattress. Looking down at his brother's colorless face, dotted with sweat, his eyes concealed by tightly clamped eyelids, Sam sank his teeth into his lower lip and forced himself to do what was necessary. With as much gentle determination as he could, Sam slid the jacket free from Dean's injured right arm. He hated the moaning growl that slipped through his brother's fortitude, the way his brother's left hand gripped intensely onto the mattress. And even worse still, his brother's eyes were closed. Eyes that usually steadied him, supported him, would usually have conveyed reassurances to Sam that Dean understood that doing this hurt Sam as much as it hurt him.

Ripping his focus from Dean's face, Sam forced his attention to his brother's blood soaked shirt sleeve. Pulling his pocket knife from his jeans, Sam cut the shirt sleeve from cuff to shoulder. With alarm, he saw that blood still seeped from the damaged flesh, almost hiding the hole that ruthlessly bore through his brother's arm. "I…I need the first aid kit from the car" he stammered, his eyes coming again to rest on Dean's face.

"Alright," Dean croaked, but when he felt Sam's still immobile presence at his side, he forced his eyes open. His brother's worry was like a tangible thing, filling the room, making breathing even more difficult. "Go get it, Sam. I'm not going anywhere."

'_You promise?_' Sam almost said aloud. Instead he bit his lip, nodded his head and had every intention of rushing from the room. Except he couldn't move, couldn't break away from Dean's pained green eyes.

Knowing his brother well enough to read his thoughts without the need of any freaky psychic abilities, Dean vowed, "I promise, Sammy." It humbled Dean to see unwavering trust spark in Sam's eyes, watch as relief dimmed his brother's anguish as he ran from the room, certain in his belief that his big brother would never make a promise he wouldn't keep.

Raising his head from the pillow, Dean read the clock above the tv. Forty two minutes until dusk fell. With bitter knowledge, he knew that the worst had yet to come. This curse would not concede defeat without one final try. It never did.

So close, he had been so close last year, so close to escaping the most ruthless of the curse's manipulations. Three minutes. That was all the time he had had left on the hourglass last year. And foolishly he had dropped his guard, had let false hope seep in, had let cockiness wash over him, had let the tension ease in his nerves…and then the car had struck him. With vivid awareness, he had felt his leg and three ribs break, knew the instant his lung collapsed, could do nothing to prevent his head from bouncing off the windshield. And then he knew nothing but agony, darkness and the bitter belief that the old crone had gotten her way.

Forty two minutes until dusk. Forty two minutes, that was all that stood between him keeping his promise to Sam. A stake of panic drove through Dean's heart. _'It's too much time! Too much could happen! And I'm too weak to ward it off!' _With brutal rationale, he acknowledged the truth: '_I might not be able to keep my promise to Sam.' _

TBC

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Author's Notes: Once again, I appreciate everyone's wonderful response to my plea for help in the direction I should take to finish this tale. I "think" I've made up my mind but one thing is for certain…it's going to take two long chapters to wrap up all the loose ends I still have flying in the wind. Hope that's Ok with everyone who was voting for 1 long chapter…now you'll get 2 for the price of…well you know what I mean.

Anyway, I'm working hard to get the next chapter together…biting my nails over how deep, how much feeling is an appropriate amount to unleashed in these manly characters (characters that seem to get away with saying the mushiest things on the show and STILL be manly as heck…Talk about terrific actors!)

Thanks again for everyone for taking time out of your real life to read my story and an especially huge thank you to everyone who goes the extra million miles and drops me a review. I am so flattered by the encouraging response I've gotten from everyone for this crazy story. THANK YOU!

Have a great day!

Cheryl


	9. Chapter 9: Setting Things Straight

Sanctuary

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Well, here's the 2nd to last chapter! And it is a long one! Love to hear your thoughts about it!

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Chapter 9: Setting Things Straight

Promises. Bitterly, Sam had come to understand that his father welded promises like another weapon in his arsenal. They were a means to an end, a con devised to placate and divert. '_I promise, Sammy, I'll be back in time for your birthday._' '_You have my word, son, we'll stay in this town for awhile._' '_I know your brother is still hurt but this hunt is an easy one, and I swear to you, I'll make sure he's safe.' _Lies…all of them.

But for all the lies that came out of _Dean Winchester_'s mouth in the pursuit of evil, he never gave a promise he didn't intend to keep. It was the reason his promises were rare, and one of the most precious things Sam had been able to cling to in his turbulent childhood. It was Dean's steadfast promises that inspired trust in Sam where there easily could have been none.

Now, once again, Sam found himself clinging with an unyielding two fisted grip onto one of his brother's promises. '_Dean would never break a promise to me,' _repeated in his head again and again as his legs raced across the motel's walkway, as he bounded down the stairs two at a time.

With his thoughts firmly fixed on his brother, Sam never recalled that one of the steps was missing until his foot was aiming for that open space. Forced at the last second to alter his momentum into a record three stairs leap, he cleared the gaping hole only to loose his balance when his foot twisted on its landing. Unbalanced, Sam slammed into the railing. It was only his grip on the handrail that ensured he didn't pitch over the side. '_Good one Sam! You ending up sprawled out on the asphalt will really help Dean! Calm down and act like a Winchester! You've seen Dean hurt worse._' That thought, however, did nothing to quell his rising panic because, though Dean had been hurt worse before, Sam had never truly believed that he had lost his brother forever, not like today.

Reaching the Impala, Sam unlocked the trunk with trembling hands, unable to stop his eyes from flickering up to their room. Yes, Dean's promise had given him the courage to leave his brother's side but now, apart from Dean, with the bitter knowledge that it was not yet dusk, that the danger to his brother had not passed, his bravery was slipping away.

Opening the trunk, Sam, shadowed in the Impala's presence, sagged against the car, his head bowed, and his eyes clenched tightly shut. It felt like a thousand emotions were crashing onto his chest, joy that he was with Dean again, relief that Dean wasn't dead, concern about his brother's injures, guilt that he hadn't protected Dean better and then there was the emotion that had him by the throat: terror. Terror that dusk was too far away, that something yet would happen, that Dean might still die that day.

Without his permissionSam's breath hitched in his throat in a quiet sob. The day's events had indelibly proven one thing to him: he couldn't bear to lose his brother. He had lost his mother before he knew her, Jess before he could make her his wife but losing Dean would break him in ways nothing else ever could. Dean was the cornerstone of everything he was, everything he hoped to be. Brother, mother, father, friend, protector, teacher, advocate, Dean had been them all for Sam as he grew up, without complaint, without regret. And what was inconceivable to Sam was the knowledge that, regardless of how far or how harshly he had pushed Dean away in the past, his brother was still willing to be all those things for him, now and forever.

'_How do I repay someone for being every good thing that I've known in this world? Certainly not by letting some curse take him out! Get your crap together! Be Sam, not Sammy. Protect Dean like he's spent his whole life protecting you.' _But Sam found he couldn't move, couldn't quite dissolve the sob in his chest.

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It was not the first time Dean Winchester knew the tightening of the noose of death around his neck, its constriction sometimes slow and sometimes swift, but always unmerciful and sure. In his line of work, death was an occupational hazard, always a possibility, and one heck of an incentive to not screw up. It was that understanding that had allowed him to be so accepting of his fate after his electrocution. It was almost a relief that it was finally upon him, that it was his fate and not Sam's or those two kids in that house.

But today, now, he didn't feel that relief. More was at stake than before, he owed a greater debt, had a greater responsibility, to Marshall Hall, to Layla, to Roy LeGrange, maybe even to God. Much had been sacrificed so he could live, could fight another day, could finish the "important job" Roy had mentioned. He couldn't let those sacrifices be in vain.

Attempting to sit up was a futile effort. His ribs ricocheted pain through his body and his right arm threatened to sever from his shoulder, sending him crashing back onto the mattress, a cry of pain ripping through the room. He couldn't do it, he couldn't ward off any more of the curse's onslaughts, found he didn't _want_ to. It was too much weight to bear, trying to make his life worth Marshal's life, Layla's life, even Sue Ellen's life. He could never make it right, never make it a worthwhile trade. His soul was too tarnished for redemption, it certainly never warranted the sacrifice of three lives.

Sam didn't understand that, didn't _want_ to understand that. Dean knew that by the look in his brother's eyes when he had told Sam he was going to die and he couldn't stop it, when he woke up in Sam's arms in Roy LeGrange's tent and even more strongly when Sam had insisted that Marshall Hall's death wasn't his fault, that Marshall would have still died, just for someone else. Each time, Sam had practically been broadcasting from the Sears Tower that there was nothing he wouldn't sacrifice to save Dean, nothing that wasn't _worthy_ to be sacrificed for his brother's life…even someone else's life.

To Sam, Dean was still some mythical hero, too valuable to lose, worth the sacrifice of an army in the defense of his safety. It was some kickback to their childhood, Dean rationalized, some ingrained little brother response that had yet to completely fade away. But Dean knew it would, the longer Sam stayed by his side, the more Sam discerned his true character, Sam would see how wrong he was about his brother. And to Dean, that was worse than dying, maybe even worse than letting those strangers' deaths be in vain.

His heroic exploits retold in his father's journal…. they weren't the only way he found value in his life, in himself. Sam was another large part of his perceived self worth, Sam and his father, the people that knew him best.

A croak that was a cross between a laugh and a sob escaped Dean at that thought. His father had ditched him and hadn't even made a guest reappearance when he was dying of heart failure! And Sam…Sam had happily unloaded a shotgun blast of rock salt into his chest, had determinedly leveled a .45 Magnum at his head and pulled the trigger three times, only to have it disappointingly click on empty chambers.

By those standards, his self worth should have registered in the negative numbers. But it didn't. Because even in his most self depreciative moments, Dean had always known the value of the lives of the people he had saved, known that he earned worth by not letting them be lost. And then there was Sammy. Regardless of the time that he and Sam had spent apart, or all the hurtful things they said to one another, or the new found differences in each of them that make their footing clumsy and defensive, Sam still gave him that look, that smile, that laugh that said they were brothers and he wouldn't change that for the world.

But now, with his life possibly ticking down, Dean accepted that Sam and that look of his were temporary things in his life, things that would disappear when vengeance was achieved. And Dean wondered where John Winchester would go when his revenge was sated, where his sons would fit into his life once they were no longer needed as soldiers.

Like a thousand nights before, Dean's eyes settled on the cracked, water stained ceiling of the dilapidated motel room. Tears burned in his eyes. Suddenly he wanted the hunting to be over, wanted his "important job" to be finished, was ready, for the first time, to accept the truth that his family was never going to be what he wanted it to be, needed it to be. That no matter how many lives he saved, no matter how many families he spared the loss he felt, it would never mend what was broken in him.

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Having resolutely wiped the anguish from his all too open face, Sam hurriedly entered the room, the first aid kit in his hand, his eyes instantly latching onto his brother's prone figure. Only when Dean rolled his head toward him and those green eyes met his anxious look, could Sam draw in a breath, feel his chest expand in relief. Dean hadn't gone anywhere, hadn't broken his promise. '_Yet,_' the unbidden doubt sprang into his head.

Quelling the cruel cynical internal taunts that sought to unravel him from the soul outward, Sam vowed to be a strong steady presence for Dean like his brother had always been for him. Decisively, he dragged the only chair in the room to the side of Dean's bed. Though Sam sensed Dean was watching his every move, his brother remained uncharacteristically silent, leaving this prime opening for protesting, whining and complaints against Sam's ministrations painfully unclaimed.

Skittering his eyes up to Dean's face, worried at what he would find in his brother's expression, Sam felt disappointment hum through him when he found Dean's eyes were no longer fastened upon him. Instead his brother's pain dulled green eyes sought comfort from the sight of the ceiling of the room.

Sam knew it had taken him a few minutes to get to the Impala, to retrieve the first aid kit, longer still as his emotions slipped their reign and he herded them back behind the brave façade he erected to wear around Dean. All in all, ten minutes might have passed…and yet, in the short time he was absent from his brother's side, Sam realized that something had changed within Dean. Dean had made a decision, had chosen a path, without Sam's knowledge and without his consent and something inside of Sam was howling out '_No!'_ in blind but nevertheless anguished protest.

Knowing only too well that uttering his protests to whatever scheme was pinballing around his brother's head would only make Dean more resolute, Sam forced himself to focus on the task at hand. Pulling a bottle of pain reliever from the kit, his eyes took in Dean's every facial muscle as he tentatively asked, "Do you want something for the pain awhile or…" His voice dropped off, knowing the answer even as Dean's head rolled on the pillow with a negative minuscule shake, his eyes still on the ceiling. The answer was not unexpected. Dean rarely accepted any drugs if a hunt was still on, if the danger was still fogging up their back windows. '_Sharp reflexes, Sammy. It's all about sharp reflexes,_' was Dean's usual comeback, a comeback that markedly didn't come this time.

But the silence wasn't the worst of it. No what pierced fiercely into Sam was the loss of his connection with Dean. It was a connection that resonated along any looks that passed between them, their eyes linking them even when they were coming at things from opposite angles, even bitter corners. It was always in Dean's eyes, his love for Sam, his trust of Sam, his faith in Sam, eyes that now refused to shift to the younger man even for a flickering second.

And Sam didn't know how to get that connection back, what words to speak. In the end, he decided to say nothing, to let silence wrap itself in the room as he began his ministrations.

Retrieving the ice bucket of water and washcloth from the nightstand and slipping into the bathroom to return with a full sized towel, Sam claimed the chair beside Dean again. Gently Sam lifted Dean's arm to slide the towel onto the bed, his jaw clenching tightly as his brother's whole body tensed in agony his face creased with pain at the slightest movement to the injured limb.

Settling Dean's arm back onto the towel, Sam doused the washcloth in the water. His eyes flickered again to his brother's face only to still be deprived of that connection he so desperately needed, wanted, his brother's inspection of the ceiling resuming. With hands that trembled too much for their experience in tending terrible wounds, Sam drew the washcloth across the ragged hole in the flesh of his brother's arm.

Hissing in agony, Dean brutally clenched the bed under his hands, his eyes tightly closed, his body rigid to give the pain no outlet for release. Each stroke of the washcloth was like sandpaper, scouring off a layer of skin, each drop of water that seeped into the bullet wound was like acid. And this was the easy part. He nearly jumped as Sam's soft, anguished, choked voice broke the silence.

"The bullet went straight through."

"Great," Dean growled through clenched teeth, "break out the mariachi band." It wasn't a response he had planned to make, hadn't planned to say anything, it had simply fallen from his lips. But it was worth his break in the silence to hear Sam's startled snort of laughter. Opening his eyes, he sought out the sight of his brother's eyes, unable to miss a chance to see the spark of humor in the brown depths. He wasn't disappointed …sort of, for the humor was there in Sam's eyes. But it was the pain, the fear in his brother's shimmering eyes that secured a tenacious hold on Dean's heart.

Instinctively, Dean wanted to soothe Sam's fears to ease his pain but found he didn't have the means. Not really. This day was out of his control, was out of Sam's control. He had already made an oath he wasn't sure he could uphold, he wouldn't hurt Sam more by making another. False promises were John Winchester's specialties. Long ago Dean had sworn they would never become his. The last minutes of his life would be a crappy time to falter in a "life long" oath.

At Dean's sarcastic grumble, hope had flared in Sam's heart, hope that Dean, _his _Dean, his bigger than life, 'no-curse-is-going-to-get-the-best-of-me' brother was back. Though Dean's eyes had finally sought him out, the look in them smothered Sam's hope and stole his very breath away. It left him choking out his brother's name, "Dean," pleading for something he couldn't verbalize, couldn't even grasp himself. All he knew was he wanted Dean to tell him what a crappy doctor he was making, to make all of this alright, to promise him again that he wasn't going anywhere.

Pulling his gaze from Sam's pleading eyes and pretending his name in Sam's broken voice didn't rip his heart out, Dean looked down to his wounded arm and quietly instructed, "You'll need to drown the wound in antiseptic wash but at least we can skip the holy water this time." And then Dean's eyes met Sam's, his look serious, focused, detached.

Able only to nod, words impossible around the lump climbing up his throat, Sam gripped the antiseptic wash and screwed off the lid. Out of all the things he hated about their lifestyle, this was always the worst…Dean being hurt, Sam needing to patch him up, Sam forced to hurt his brother in order to help him. It was one of the reasons Stanford had been so appealing, knowing that this part of his life would end….he dared not dwell on the fact that it wouldn't end for Dean, didn't. Now Sam accepted the truth, it hadn't ended for Dean, the wounds, the patching up, the pain on top of pain…it all continued…but who was there to help Dean, to patch him up, to hurt him to save him. '_I'm sorry, Dean. I am so sorry I wasn't there!_' ran through his head over and over as he lifted the bottle, his trembling hand hovering above the bullet wound.

"It's alright, Sammy. Just do it and get it over with," Dean soothed quietly, his voice rough with emotions that Sam's obvious reluctance to hurt him generated. When Sam's tear filled eyes settled on him, Dean cursed himself for putting Sam through this, for not insisting before this that he could tend to his own wounds. Lifting his right hand toward the bottle, he began, "I'll do it, Sa…"

"No," Sam intended to growl but it came out a croak and he shook his head. "I'll do it." And then his uncertain look solidified into that determined Winchester gleam, leaving only his eyes to scream out to Dean's steady gaze, '_I'm sorry! I'm sorry for the pain I'm about to cause you Dean!'_ "You ready?" his voice low, controlled, forced.

"Yeah," Dean acknowledged and his whole body tensed for the agony he knew was headed his way. A moment before the antiseptic burned across his every nerve like acid, before pain was the only thing he registered, Dean felt Sam's right hand slip into his hand, felt the strength, the desperation, the anchor of that grip, and it was enough to see him through the agony.

Dean's cry of pain, the way his brother nearly came off the bed in reaction, the bone crushing grip of Dean's hand in his was almost enough to break Sam's already faltering emotional walls. The thought that Dean needed him, that Dean's life was in his hands, that he was the guardian today, gave him the strength to pour another measure of the antiseptic into the bullet wound, to do what must be done to keep Dean safe, his own feelings be damned.

As the second wave of burning heat slowly died down to embers, Dean's breath came in gasps, his body was slicked with sweat, his throat was raw from the cry of pain he unleashed and the bellow of agony he had managed to keep trapped in his throat. Swallowing with some discomfort, Dean watched his little brother dab at the bullet wound with extreme care, the determined look on Sam's face like a neon sign. With love and sick dread, Dean knew Sam would do whatever was necessary to protect him..and that was what Dean dreaded most in the world.

Sensing Dean's look upon him, Sam switched his inspection from the wound to Dean. A brief flash of sadness flared in Dean's eyes before they slipped back into their unreadable spectrum, effectively shutting Sam out. "I'm not going to stitch it today, in case infection tries to set in," Sam said, unable to prevent his tone from seeking Dean's consent, for his soul from craving his brother's approval at every turn.

"Alright," Dean managed to breathe out, his tone low with all too fresh agony. It was only then that he became aware that his hand still desperately gripped Sam's. Uncurling his fingers from their possessive hold on Sam's hand, Dean almost shut his hand again to capture Sam's hand as it slid slowly from his grasp, leaving him feeling suddenly alone.

Knowing that Dean would not tolerate his continued hold on his hand, Sam slid his hand free but purposefully didn't look at Dean, certain that his bereavement at the lost connection would beam from his eyes. Putting his freed hand to good use, he began to wrap a sterile bandage around Dean's arm, mercifully concealing his brother's ravaged flesh from Sam's sight. His voice was barely audible in the quiet room, "What time is dusk tonight?" his focus remaining on the bandage now unsteady in his hands.

Lulled by the easing pain, Dean blinked a few times before he could decipher Sam's words. Then he cleared his throat and flippantly answered, "7:04, if those bozos at the weather channel are correct."

Sam twisted his wrist enough to see his watch face and he wasn't sure if he should scowl or rejoice as it revealed the time as 6:45. Nineteen minutes to go. Longer than it had taken Sam to stop the car in Indiana, throw out some hurtful words and walk away from Dean, shorter than the time it took to get an electrocuted Dean to the hospital, which took into account the soul crushing minutes the paramedics had spent resuscitating Dean in the basement of that deserted house. Of course it could also be gauged as less time than it took for Dean to finally drop his protective watch over Sam after one of his nightmares, and more time than it had taken Sam, as he settled in the passenger seat of the Impala after a two year absence, to remember why he loved his brother so much. The crux of the matter was that, good, bad, happy, sad, joyous, tragic, it all could fit into nineteen minutes. '_Normal nineteen minutes_,' Sam bitterly pointed out, knowing that the minutes to come were decidedly not normal, that what time lay ahead was predestined to carve out a certain fate for Dean.

Victory, defeat, life or death, the battle would be waged in the _next _nineteen minutes, minutes which the curse would mercilessly seek to steal his brother away from him. A battle Sam felt defenseless against. Useless were all the weapons in his arsenal, his treasured college education folly in the face of this evil. Salt could not deter the destructive touch of the curse from making the room its playground, his brother its toy. Latin chants would fall on empty space, ineffectual and a waste of breath.

With despair beginning to wrap its talons into his soul, Sam finally discerned that there was only one thing that had the power to withstand this evil; his fierce love for his brother. His love for Dean was stronger than any curse, more tenacious than some old crone's hate, more deep seated than even Sam's desire to take another breath. It was then that Sam experienced the true weight of protecting someone that he loved better than himself. In truth it didn't even shock him to realize that he was willing to risk anything, everything, to go to whatever lengths necessary to keep his brother safe. For in that moment, Sam knew his brother better than ever, understood what prompted Dean's big brother protective motives, found himself ready to emulate Dean's reckless methods to ensure that his brother was safe, was going to remain safe. He and Dean were not so different after all.

Sam's face told Dean everything. His brother's worry, his brother's fear, his brother's love for him and finally his resolve to save him. It was all there in his eyes, in the sight of his teeth biting into his lower lip, in the crease in that strong brow. And other things spoke just as loudly, the tender way Sam tied off the bandage on his arm, the hitch in Sam's breath, the fact that Sam was still there, ready to defend him against anything this curse would unleash. The knowledge gave Dean the strength to do what he must.

"Help me up, Sam," Dean ordered, forcing strength into a voice still raw from pain and ravaged emotions, lifting his head from the pillow. To his surprise, Sam's strong hands quickly supported his neck and slid behind his back, aiding him to sit up. Sitting on the left side of the bed, his head feeling like it was in danger of rolling off his shoulders, Dean clenched tightly to the bed under his hands as Sam slipped in front of him, gripping his shoulders supportively. Dean could see the glimmer of hope in his brother's eyes, could tell his show of "strength" was an encouraging sign to Sam, could feel the love Sam had for him. It made his next words inordinately hard and inescapably necessary…but that was nothing new, really. Protecting Sam had always been an undeserving honor that sometimes came with an immeasurably hard price.

"I don't want you here, Sam," Dean's voice was gruff, pained, exasperated even as he hoped that his eyes were not conveying all the things he wanted to say instead.

His brother's order was unexpected, delivering a painful strike to Sam's unprotected heart. But it could not dislodge his love, he was convinced nothing could. "I'm not leaving you, Dean," the declaration more filled with desperation than strength.

"I called Dad," Dean's words were quiet but they jolted Sam, sent surprise, wariness and panic into the brown eyes that met Dean's. Pulling on a small sad smirk, Dean continued, "Course I just had to leave a message." No matching smirk lurked in Sam's tight mouth, clenched jaw, so Dean dropped the pretenses and let his resolve tighten his own mouth, darken his eyes, steady his voice. "I told him you would meet him at Caleb's place at midnight tonight." Sam's emotions crashed into Dean as if they were his own, causing him to look away.

But Dean couldn't ignore the screaming in his head, '_Finish this! Now_! _You don't have time to be weak_!' Pointedly he looked down to his watch before he coldly advised, "You should leave now," wishing they were better words, kinder words. With a smirk strategically hinged on his handsome face, Dean raised his eyes to hold Sam's wounded gaze, "You know Dad hates when you're late."

A vise was crushing Sam's heart as he choked out his accusation, "You're lying!" But as the fake smirk faded from his brother's face, and Dean's eyes became unguarded, Sam's doubts were swept away. Even still, he vainly tried for one more denial, "You don't have your cell phone…"

A tired honest smirk eased on Dean's features. "Maybe you're too young to remember them, but there is such a thing as a payphone, Sammy."

With betrayal, hurt and fear wrestling for domination, Sam drew in a gasping breath as he shook his head, not in denial but refusal. He was confused about a lot of things but whether or not he should be with Dean wasn't one of them. Not anymore, not after the events of this day. "No, Dean!" he shouted, shooting to his feet, preparing himself to win any form of battle that was about to be waged.

With his emotions lending him strength, Dean came to his feet, growling, "Yes, Sam!" Again his world lapsed into white hues but he refused to anchor onto Sam to keep his feet. He'd been on the floor before in his life, he knew how to get back up. But Sam refused him that choice.

His hands flying out to latch onto Dean's arms as the older man swayed, Sam took a step closer to better support his brother's overtaxed body. He was surprised when Dean's hands pushed weakly against his chest, trying to extract him from Sam's increasingly tenacious hold.

Raising his green eyes to blaze into Sam's across the inches that separated them, Dean commanded, "You have to let me go," his voice rough, anxious, demanding as he assimilated more strength, reinforced his stance and shoved harder on Sam's chest.

"No!" Sam brokenly rebelled as if the word was torn from his very soul, his hands tightening their hold on Dean's biceps. He wouldn't let go, couldn't, because he knew Dean wasn't talking about the physical hold he held him in, that it went deeper than that, cut more brutally than that.Because he knew those words, they were **his** words, from Chicago, '_You have to let me go'. _Swallowing convulsively, Sam fought the urge to be sick as he came to understand, first hand, the pain an appeal like that could inflict, the pain that _his _appeal had inflicted on Dean. Pain that had the power to shred a soul, to sever the bonds that made he and Dean brothers.

Locked in his brother's hold, seeing the pain flash in Sam's eyes, Dean knew he had to make his escape now, before he lost his nerve. His words were nearly a shout, though he was almost close enough for his breath to move Sam's hair, "Sam, if you want me to let you go, it's time, alright! I can do it now! If it has to be done, then let me do it, Sam. Now, Sam. Right now!"

_Now or Never_, Sam realized Dean was leaving unsaid but he could see the truth in his brother's gaze. Stunned, Sam unconsciously loosened his grip on Dean. The words had come so easily in Chicago, the thought of returning to a normal life so appealing, believing he could put all this warped stuff away forever an anticipated joy. But he had not reconciled even then that that would mean severing his ties with Dean all over again, maybe forever. Now he understand what sacrifice would have to be made, understood it the way Dean had always understood it. Stanford had been a leave of absence, it had not been a final goodbye to the life he had known, though he had fooled himself into thinking it had been.

Today, now, it was the real deal. It was his exit, if not from this hunting life it was his exit from the ties Dean had on him, had always had on him, ties that had tethered him to their family. Even if he hooked up with their Dad, even if Dad, Dean and he fought and defeated what had killed Jess, it would not be the goodbye then between the brothers that hung in the air, right in this motel room. Now or never: Sever the ties with Dean or seal them forever.

"Dean…" Sam pleaded brokenly. For what? He wasn't sure.

As if Sam hadn't spoken, Dean gently reassured with that confidence Sam always relied upon, "You and Dad will find some middle ground, Sam. You need each other, maybe more now than ever before. I should have recognized that in Chicago, sent you with Dad then. I guess.." breaking off before his voice revealed the emotions he wouldn't expose, Dean looked away. When he spoke again, his voice was distant, far away, like he was telling a story from his past that could no longer affect him. "I was content, you know, with you and me on the road." Snorting in self disgust, he again met Sam's stunned expression and offered up a tight smirk. "I was just being selfish."

The thought of leaving Dean, now or even in Chicago, nearly closed up Sam's throat. Possessively, he tightened his hold on Dean. "I'm not leaving you, Dean," his voice husky with gathering resolve, his eyes daring Dean to object, "and I wouldn't have gone with Dad in Chicago, not without you."

Struggling for his words to not reflect his hurt, Dean reiterated Sam's own accusations back at him. "Come on, Sam! Before we even left Chicago you kept telling me that letting Dad go was a mistake. Well," swallowing, Dean looked to the floor, "maybe it was…for you." Forcing himself to watch Sam's face, to read whatever emotions sprang to the dark eyes, Dean faced Sam before softly continuing, "I don't know how you feel about losing Jess, right? Well, Dad does. That was another reason I wanted to hook up with Dad, so you two could….talk, work through things, from before Stanford and …after."

Dean's words were like the impact of a baseball bat to Sam's chest, making his every breath painful. How could his own words wound him so badly! He barely remembered some of them, had, no doubt, purposefully wiped them from his memory because guilt at hurting Dean wasn't something he endured well. Dean had no such memory failings. '_How old were you when Mom died? Four! Jess died six months ago Dean. How the hell would you know how I feel!_' And Dean had taken the attack without retaliation, without defending himself, without unburying his own agony and sorrow, had let Sam win the battle without offering up a defense, had let Sam's needs overshadow his own, again, always.

In retrospect, Sam realized that, when he met his Dad in Chicago, out of the all the things he felt and all the things he needed from his Dad, his Dad commiserating with his loss of Jess had not even been a consideration. For his aching despair had already been treated, tempered, eased …by someone who he had cursed for not knowing the sorrow, someone he condemned because he wasn't drowning in the same pain, someone who he brutally deemed not worthy to empathize with him: Dean.

Unable to label the emotions shifting in Sam's features, Dean quietly counseled, "You need to be with Dad, Sam." Sharply, Dean remembered Sam's broken confession in the woods of Black Creek. '_I gotta find Dad…it's the only thing I can think about_.' "It's what you've been trying to tell me from the start but I …I just wasn't listening," his voice thick and deep with emotions clawing through his chest.

"I meant for all three of us to be together, Dean!" Sam countered, stunned that Dean could get it so wrong, be so blind to what he wanted, what he needed.

His eyes turning hard as granite, Dean harshly refuted, "You don't want things to go back the way they were, remember Sam."

Sam opened his mouth to deny the accusation but no words would come. Lying to Dean wasn't something he did.

Drawing in a steadying breath, his gaze intently meeting Sam's, Dean announced, "I'm letting you go, Sam, just like you wanted me to."

Sam's eyes suddenly swam with tears that didn't fall as he croaked out, "I don't want that, Dean."

"I need to end things with us on my terms this time Sam. Not yours," Dean stated, almost in apology, his left hand coming up to latch onto Sam's wrist to dislodge his brother's hold on his left arm.

"End things…" Sam stammered, his left hand clutching more desperately onto Dean's arm in defiance of Dean's prying hand and cutting words.

Dean nearly sighed as he dropped his hand from its futile mission. Sam always had a killer grip, even as a baby. In exasperation, Dean explained what he thought was so obvious, "You know, 'let you go', help pack your bags for the train back to normal, conveniently erase your number from my cell phone."

Now Sam used his brother's name as a protest, "Dean!"

But Dean never gave him the chance to say more. With his eyes conveying how deeply he meant what he was about to say, he quietly, even tenderly spoke to his brother. "I want to do it now, Sam, not over the burning corpse of the demon, not at some airport terminal, and not with one of us standing beside the other's gravesite. I don't want it to end like it has before, with screaming and cursing and saying things we wished we hadn't said. You're all for normal, right?" And he forced a smile on his lips even as his eyes looked sadder than Sam had ever been allowed to see them. "I want to part ways the normal way. So how does that go, Sam? A pat on the back, a firm handshake and a 'take care of yourself' and then we walk away, nice and civilized. So here," he said, reaching his left hand up to tenderly cup the side of Sam's neck and extending his right hand out for a handshake.

"You bastard!" Sam choked out nearly letting the sob escape as he released his left hand from Dean's arm and used the appendage to viciously knock Dean's right hand away. But even as he rejected Dean's handshake, Sam prayed that Dean would not release his hold on his neck because he couldn't bear the disconnection, not right then.

Biting back a cry of pain at his wounded arm's cruel treatment, Dean dropped his hand from Sam's neck and latched it around his left wrist, sheltering his injured arm against his chest. "You're pretty ungrateful for getting what you want!" he shot back, pain tinting his angry words.

"What I want? That …this is not what I want, Dean!" Sam exploded, almost releasing Dean from his hold before he remembered he was practically the only thing keeping Dean on his feet. That reality caused him to replace his left hand's position back onto his brother's arm. Then, taking in a steadying deep breath, Sam shook his head and looked away from Dean, scrambling to figure out the right words to say to make this all better, to get Dean to see he couldn't go anywhere, that he didn't want him to, that in fact, he wouldn't **let** him go anywhere.

Sensing Sam's hurt and frayed nerves, Dean did what he always did. He tried to ease Sam's pain. Sighing, he gently confessed, "Sam, I'm not looking for our last words to be in anger."

Sam flinched as if Dean had struck him, his eyes flying to Dean's instantly. It was that sharp reaction that caused Dean to realize what he had said, what he had implied. "Dean!" Sam gasped, his fingers digging into his brother's arms with desperate strength.

"Don't go all Oprah on me, Sam! I didn't mean.." Dean emphatically denied but Sam cut him off.

"Yes you did," Sam quietly accused in stunned disbelief. Then fury seized control and his voice took on that low base sound that heralded one heck of a battle was in progress. "Yes you did! You think you're gonna die and you're ok with that!"

"I bought the freakin' bullet proof vest last week, didn't I? I wore it today, didn't I!" Dean shouted back, angrily shoving Sam away. To the surprise of both brothers, Dean had managed to jar Sam's hold enough to achieve his freedom. "I'm not suicidal!" Dean said darkly, uncertain if his body was trembling more from his emotions than from his weakness.

"I saw you, Dean!" Sam accused heatedly, his finger pointing at Dean. "I saw you! I saw you leap in front of that kid, take the bullets meant for him!"

"I had a vest on Sam!" Dean countered, his voice louder than before.

"And would it have mattered if you didn't?" Sam snarled and it was the silence that answered for him, the set look on his brother's face that snapped Sam's control. Before Dean could guess his intentions, before Sam knew his own intentions, Sam cleared the distance between him and Dean to violently grip Dean by the shirt. Yanking Dean forward a step, Sam shook Dean before he growled, "You would have done the same thing even if you didn't have the vest on, wouldn't you?" When Dean didn't answer immediately, he shook him harder and yelled, "Wouldn't you?"

Even in the face of his nearly unhinged brother, Dean couldn't help but snort, wouldn't deny himself the twist of his lips. "To tell you the truth Sam, I kinda forgot I was wearing the vest today."

Sam found himself gasping for breath, his fists gripping more desperately to Dean's shirt because the truth was like a sword in his chest. It was that simple for Dean, that _easy_ for him to give up his life for a stranger. It was without thought, without regret. And Sam painfully remembered what it felt like, kneeling on that sidewalk beside his too still brother, thinking, believing Dean was dead, dead because he valued some kid's life more than his own.

The revelation of Dean's casual disregard for his own life, of his lack of concern that there were two bullets lodged in the bullet proof vest he wore, in places that would have ended his life, places like his lungs, his _heart, _was too much for Sam's formidable barriers to withstand. Snaking his arms around Dean, he wrapped Dean into a desperate hug, his hands fisted into the back of this brother's shirt as his sob broke free from its mooring. His desperation to keep Dean there, with him, safe, had no bounds. For today, if not for the Kevlar vest, as it was, a _forgotten_ Kevlar vest, he would have lost his brother. And there was nothing that could destroy him more than that.

Instinctively, Dean wrapped his arms around his brother's trembling body, caught off guard by Sam's emotions, by his own emotions. Finding that he needed to swallow, hard, twice before he could speak, Dean's tone was thick and wavering. "Sam, it's alright." But Sam drew him tighter into his hold and Dean took another stab at saying what Sam wanted to hear. "I'm alright." There was some level of shook that went through Dean as Sam's sob died down, as the hands fisted in his shirt loosed marginally, as his brother's tense body uncoiled. It was irrefutable proof that he had said what Sam wanted to hear most: that his brother was OK.

And then it was Dean who was fighting down a sob, whose emotions were slipping their reign. In true Dean Winchester fashion, he quickly extracted himself from Sam's hold and turned his back on his brother, unwilling to falter under his brother's stare.

There were a thousand things Sam wanted to say, needed to say to his brother. But this was not the end, was not going to be goodbye, wasn't his last chance to tell Dean how much he loved him, needed him. There would be another time, another place, another _day _because his brother wasn't going to die today. Now he only needed to say what applied to the here and now, what Dean needed to understand, to accept.

With a few steps, Sam came to stand before Dean, pained to see his brother's head bowed, cocked to the side, as if the weight of what he bore was too heavy to bare and too horrible to see. Swallowing his own emotions, Sam tenderly put his hand under Dean's chin and levered his brother's head up, torn apart at the sorrow in the green eyes that hesitantly met his. "I'm not leaving you, Dean," and Sam's voice had never been stronger, held more resolve, nor had his eyes ever blazed hotter with his love for his brother.

His eyes flickering to the clock, Dean felt panic constrict around his chest. Refocusing on Sam, he began in protest, "Sam, the curse…"

Sam didn't let Dean finish. "It has to go through me to get to you." It was a statement, an oath, a simple fact that came as easily to Sam as breathing.

Dean's breath hitched in his throat, his face became shadowed with fear, "Don't you get it Sam. That's what scares me the most."

'_I know the feeling_,' came to Sam but he didn't verbalize it, didn't admit that he almost shattered apart every time Dean put his life on the line to save him. Instead he said what Dean would best respond to, "After all we've faced off against, we can withstand the best this curse has to offer," and his eyes held Dean's intently, fervently as he spoke the only truth that mattered, "as long as we're together, Dean."

Dean felt his heart skip a beat at Sam's words. Wasn't that what he wanted to believe with every fiber in his soul, that everything would be OK if they were together, him and Sam? That happiness lurked somewhere just out of his reach and if he could get his family together and keep them together, that happiness would wash over him, would start to mend him in ways nothing else ever could?

Just when he was ready to give up, when he was ready to abandon his delusions of family and happiness and wholeness, Sam had to go and say the one thing that kept him from slipping over the edge. '_You're always twisting things around, Sam. Forcing me to feel, making me want things just out of my reach…giving me the strength to fight a little harder, a little longer…forever, just so I don't have to see that gut wrenching sad look in your eyes you had when I told you I was dying..when I told you now that I didn't want you with me.' _

A light rekindled in Dean's eyes as an honest to goodness smile broke across his face. "I hope you're right, Sammy, cause I'ld really hate to give that old crone the satisfaction of winning."

"We won't, Dean," Sam brashly vowed before a teasing gleam entered his eyes. "Because satisfying old crones is even below your standards," he wisecracked, causing Dean to snort and shake his head.

"Sick jokes at a time like this," Dean reproved with a laugh in his tone and his eyes gleaming with pride, "you've slowly becoming my hero Sammy."

"Learned from the best," Sam accredited before he shook off the mantle of little brother and pulled on the full armor of Dean Winchester's bodyguard. A bodyguard who was nearing his end with his charge. "Now, you stupid jerk, stop giving me heart attacks today. And get it through that thick head of yours: You're stuck with me Dean. Forever. So get over it! And clean out your ears while you're at it! I said "You're going to have to let me go **_my own way_**," Dean. Like back to college or to a _paying_ job, I never meant I was going to go away from you. Because whether I go back to college or get a 9 to 5 job somewhere, you're still stuck with me, dude. We're going to call each other, you're going to come and hang out with me for a few weeks a year, I'll help you with some poltergeist during my vacation time…."

There was a renewed light glimmering in Dean's eyes as he taunted, " Sammy, don't make some death bed promises to me that you have no intention of keeping….cause you know what?" and Sam was blessed with his brother's full cocky smile, "I might screw over the old crone and you by surviving today."

Sam's hand shot out to playfully shove Dean's jaw to the right, causing Dean to laugh over his brother's insults of "You stupid, dumb…."

A cracking pop halted Sam's words and for a moment the two brother's eyes met in confusion and dread. Then, at the same time their heads swiveled toward the door and watched as flames shot up from the shattered lamp on the floor, streaked across the floor like they were lapping up gasoline and erupted in a seven foot wall, right in front of the door.

"Ah crap!" came simultaneously from both Winchesters.

Then their survival instincts took over, counterpoint to the brothers' well honed partnership. Instantly Dean was stripping the blanket off the nearest bed and Sam was already dashing for the bathroom. "Hurry Sam!" Dean bellowed, gripping the blanket in his grip but knowing there was no way he could smother the flames that towered over his head, not before Sam arrived with their first line of defense.

Running from the bathroom, water sloshing from the trash can, Sam gained Dean's side and threw the water on the flames directly before the door. The reaction was like an explosion, a wall of heat hit Sam and Dean, causing them to stumble back, even as the flames expanded, shooting higher and wider. It was like they were dealing with Greek fire, water a combustible element instead of a retardant.

"Son of a …" Dean harshly breathed, his lungs struggling against the oppressive heat and the gathering smoke, barely even registering that Sam was pulling him backwards.

His hand tightly latched onto Dean's arm, ensuring that his brother wouldn't try and confront the flames like he did so many other things that threatened their lives, Sam swept his eyes around the room. His search came up with four cement walls, without windows, and a small windowless bathroom. '_A freakin' death trap! I brought Dean into a freakin' death trap!'_

TBC

Ah…my latest cliffie of this story! It is a bitter sweet moment. See, as promised, this was a nice long chapter and the final chapter is turning out to be pretty long as well.

Hope this chapter was enjoyable and didn't mangle the boys' tough exteriors too badly. I just couldn't miss the chance for mush and a brotherly hug. Thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter and gave me free license to play the emotional scenes as I wanted to.

I would love to hear your thoughts on the chapter!

As always, I truly am grateful to everyone who has taken the time to read this chapter and to those who review…you guys are the steam that keeps this story going, keeps me taking that risky leap of faith to post another chapter! Without your support, this story would have simply remained buried on my laptop, unfinished and forgotten.

Cheryl W.


	10. Chapter 10: Heated Exchange

Sanctuary

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Ok I LIED! This is NOT the final chapter! I decided to throw everything in the ending of this story except the kitchen sink and it got ridiculously long. So, this is the meat and potatoes chapter to be followed up by the **final **chapter. Sorry but I just couldn't convince myself to let anything out or miss an opportunity for some nice fluff to rear its lovely head. Hope you don't mind.

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Chapter 10: Heated Exchange

Fire. Dean Winchester knew it intimately, knew its smell, its hypnotic dance, its collage of colors, hated it even as he loved it. With its proclivity to destroy and to save, to rob and to safeguard, it was a volatile mistress. It had murdered his mother, decimated his naivety, stolen his childhood, and set him onto a path he would never have chosen on his own. And yet, time and time again, fire had proven itself his ally. It had once staved off the merciless touch of frostbite, had faithfully lit his path in the darkest of places, and was the most effective weapon in his arsenal, vanquishing evil when only a good salt and burn ritual would do. How could he not value something that allowed him to save lives, that had saved his life and the lives of those he loved in this world countless times? No, the pendulum swung too wide and too often to deem fire friend or foe, leaving him with only one certainty, fire was irrevocably interwoven in his life.

'_And my fate_…' Dean realized now, watching the flames play hopscotch on the ceiling through the gathering smoke, feeling the heat burn his throat at every breath. What rebellion sprang in him was not against his fate but in refusal that this be Sam's fate, Sam who stood at his side, scared, vulnerable and trapped in a burning room all because of him. '_It can't end like this! Not for Sam! Not with fire and not because of some curse heaped on my head!_ _Think Winchester! Think! Find some way to get Sam outta here!'_

Swallowing as the flames began to make their way toward them, Sam stammered, "Dean, I'm sorry. I should have…" but his words died as Dean took a step _towards_ the flames. Instantly Sam's hold tightened on Dean's arm, ensuring that the older man could not take another step forward without dragging Sam with him.

Surprised to find Sam hindering his action, Dean faced Sam. "My heart medicine, I need it," he anxiously explained.

"You're having another heart attack! Now!" Sam exclaimed, stunned that so many bad things could occur simultaneously, unconsciously his grip tightened instead of loosened on his brother, as if he could ward off this newest threat to Dean.

Refusing to acknowledge the heightened fear evident in Sam's eyes, Dean shot back in denial. "No! I'm not having another freakin' heart attack! I need the nitroglycerin vials from the first aid kit." When his words didn't achieve his freedom from his brother's hold, only causing Sam's brow to wrinkle in puzzlement, Dean spoke his next words slowly and precisely. "_Nitro_ being the key word."

Understanding flashed in Sam's eyes a moment before he ordered, "Stay here!" and dashed forward, his long arms snagging the first aid kit from the ground only inches from the merciless flames. Recoiling from the wall of heat, Sam quickly made his way back to Dean's side only to fist his hand in Dean's shirt and yank them both back a few more paces.

Grabbing the kit from Sam's hands, Dean sat it on the bed closest to the back wall and flipped the lip open. Shoving aside bandages, needles, and holy water, his hands finally revealed the five glass vials of nitroglycerin. "Here" he said to Sam as the shoved he vials into Sam's chest, releasing them almost before Sam had a good grip on them.

Jostling the five small vials, Sam watched as Dean crouched down beside his bag and began throwing out his clothing in a search for what, Sam couldn't guess. Surprised to find Dean's face shooting up to his with a triumphant cocky grin, he thought the found item would be more….exciting. "Jack Daniels! You have a bottle of Jack Daniels in your bag?"

A scowl fell on Dean's face as he knelt on the floor, gripping his prize, "Hey, it wasn't going to be the best day of my life today, I thought a drink might be in order." Seeing the lecture gathering in his brother, Dean snapped, "Stage your AA intervention _after_ we survive this, Sam."

Sam gave a nod of agreement, coughed and said with a voice turning raw with the smoke, "You have a plan," his words coming off as a statement but his eyes wary.

"Yeah, sort of," Dean distractedly replied, screwing off the cap of the alcohol bottle. "We're going to pour those vials in this bottle, _carefully_."

Coming to kneel beside Dean, Sam began removing the lids from the vials and lining the vials up on the floor. He watched Dean pick up the first vial, take a deep breath and slowly pour the vial's contents into the bottle, wincing as the first drop of the nitroglycerin make contact with the alcohol. Reassured that it didn't incite their doom, Dean poured the rest of the vial contents into the bottle.

"So, what's this plan of yours," Sam breathed, coughing, lifting his arm to cover his nose and mouth from the smoke.

Having finished pouring all of the vial contents in the alcohol, Dean leaned away from the bottle and let out a pent up cough, sounding like a long time smoker. When he had some of his breath back, he answered Sam's question. Nodding his head to the wall to his right, Dean revealed, "We're going to use this concoction to blast a hole right through that wall, climb into the adjoining room and get out of this death trap."

Sam hated to discourage his brother's plan, but he couldn't hold back his doubts. "Dean," he began gently, "I mean the Nitrate in that medication..it's pretty stable …just because it sounds like nitro.."

"You got a better idea college boy, spit it out," Dean challenged, before another cough stole his breath away.

"No, but…" Sam began.

"Then we go with my plan," Dean announced, gingerly picking up the bottle and putting it into a gentle small circular loop, allowing the nitroglycerin to mix with the alcohol. Then, with the bottle in hand, he made to stand, grateful when Sam's strong arm wrapped around his waist and helped his pain filled ascent.

"So what do we need to do to set off this bomb?" Sam asked now fully on board with Dean's plan, his faith in his brother overshadowing any doubts he had in his brother's methods. He watched as Dean's eyes swung from the fire that had now engulfed the bed closest to the door, to the wall to the right, and then to the bathroom.

"Stuff's volatile enough to throw but…it would work better if we could set it by the wall and ignite it from as far away as we can."

"How about if we shoot the bottle?" Sam suggested.

Dean sent him a smirk, "Hey why didn't I think of that? Oh, yeah, because we have no guns, Sam! We weren't on a job. Guns are all in the car…" his thoughts flickered to the now gone Impala and he fought down a curse, '_lousy stupid curse_!' A .45 Magnum appeared in his line of vision and he reached for the gun, "Why do you have… Hey, that's not one of our guns," but the gun was pulled away before he could touch it, causing him to shoot Sam a startled look.

"Let's discuss our weapons inventory some other time, Dean," Sam mockingly reprimanded, tucking the gun back into the front waist of his pants. "Give me the bottle," he ordered, and he wrapped his hands carefully around the bottle. "I've got it," he declared, his eyes steady on Dean's.

Releasing his grip on the bottle, Dean felt his breath catch in his throat as Sam walked slowly toward the wall and sat the bottle on the floor between the two beds. He felt relief wash over him when Sam stepped back and regained his side. "Let's get into the bathroom," Dean instructed, now it was his hand fisted in Sam's shirt, pulling him backward. Backing into the bathroom as far as they could, the brothers stood shoulder to shoulder, a wall at their back and a room being consumed with fire in front of them.

Together they crouched down against the wall, their eyes meeting.

"You think this is really going to work?" Sam breathed, knowing that whatever Dean said he was ready to believe.

A smirk lit up Dean's pale, soot covered face, "It did for MacGyver," he pointed out.

Sam couldn't hold back the bark of laughter, "Oh, that's so reassuring." Raising the gun, he cocked it and gave one last look to Dean. "Dean…"

"Yeah.." Dean replied hesitation in his voice.  
"I don't care what you say, that old crone's a dead woman," Sam vowed, and Dean didn't doubt that Sam meant to carry out the oath. Before Dean could reply, Sam pushed Dean's head down with his left hand an instant before the gun kicked in his right hand, releasing the bullet. Bowing his own head, his forehead resting on Dean's, Sam raised his arms over Dean's head even as he felt the similar shelter of Dean's arms bracketing his bowed head.

The bullet flew true, striking the bottle, setting off the explosion.

It was like an invisible wall slammed into Sam and Dean, crushing them against the wall, even as their ears rang with the report of the explosion a moment before they were peppered with hail sized chunks of cement. Huddling closer together, each brother desperate to protect the other, pressed their arms tighter to their brother's head. They rode out the explosion aftermath, coughing on the new air pollutant in the room as they raised their heads at the same time, squinting through the smoke and dust in the air to be rewarded with the sight of a three foot hole in the cement wall.

"Ha! You of little faith," Dean gloated as Sam again wrapped a hand around his waist and helped him come to his feet. Brushing off Sam's hold without thought, Dean headed for their escape route, crossing the bathroom's threshold to realize that the flames had recessed back toward the entrance of the room, a little less potent than they were before. "The explosion, it starved the fire of some oxygen…nearly put it out," he stated, astonished at the success of his plan before he looked again to the hole in the wall, to the safety that was peeking through the ravaged cement. Taking note of the small section of floor that the explosion had also destroyed, he called over his shoulder to Sam, "There's some damage to the floor but we can easily jump .." Without warning the floor under Dean's feet fell away.

If Sam was just a normal twenty two year old, like he so longed to be, he would have never reacted fast enough to save Dean. As it was, his dive had only been in time to allow his fingers to rake down Dean's right arm, desperate for a purchase. "Dean!" burst from him in anguish and terror as Dean's descent seemed inevitable…right before Dean's hand slid into his grasping grip and their hands forged together as if they were pieces of the same complex puzzle.

Groaning in pain as his wounded arm was wrenched nearly from its socket, Dean found himself dangling in mid air, Sam's hold the only thing preventing a harsh landing into the room below. Unable to resist knowing what horrors had been diverted, Dean looked down and found himself reinforcing his grip on Sam's hand. The room below was not habitable, hadn't been habitable for some time, not unless someone liked a big hole in their room floor that exposed underground pipes and sported jagged edged pipes and workman's tools scattered about the floor consisting of a jackhammer, blow torch, and saw blade bench. As fate would have it, the hole equipped with the jagged edged pipes and the saw blade all lay below Dean, waiting to impale him.

Looking up to Sam, Dean saw the determined set of Sam's features and knew his brother had also taken stock of the landing he would suffer if his little brother's grip faltered.

"I got you, Dean," Sam reassured, sliding backwards on his stomach before he sat up from a safer distance from the edge, pulling Dean up with the motion. When Dean's other hand gripped the rim of the broken floor boards, Sam's left hand latched onto the fabric on his brother's left shoulder, using it as another lever to pull Dean to safety. Then Sam's hand obtained a more tenacious hold by gripping Dean's pants and finally managed to drag Dean back into the room that only moments before they were desperate to leave.

Crawling on the floor until his feet were no longer hanging over the gaping hole, Dean collapsed on the floor beside the kneeling Sam, breathing hard and comforted by his brother's hand on the back of his head. "_That_ did not happen to MacGyver!" he grumbled before he marshaled together what strength he still had and began to crawl to his feet.

"That's because MacGyver never pissed anyone off enough to get cursed," Sam quipped, supporting Dean under his arms allowing them both to gain their feet at the same time.

Then they stood there, shoulder to shoulder, surveying their room. The fire was regaining its boldness, busy reclaiming the territory it had lost, and the wall opposite them, it still boasted an escape hole…trouble was, no floor remained between them and that escape route.

Dread resettled in Dean's chest because, the last time he had checked, he wasn't Rocky the flying Squirrel. And that was before a crack resonated through the room and he and Sam simultaneously looked down to see cracks splintering across the floor boards under their feet. Dean's hands latched onto Sam's shirt even as Sam's latched onto his and they dragged each other backwards into the bathroom. But the splintering followed their motions and they jumped as another section of the floor dropped away, the section that they were laying on seconds ago.

"Get in the tub!" Dean called out, shoving Sam toward the bathtub.

Not second guessing Dean's order, Sam crossed the bathroom and stood in the tub. A moment later Dean leaped into the tub as the floor in the entrance of the bathroom followed the sections before. Coming to understand Dean's theory, Sam quickly sat down in the tub. "Dean sit down!" he ordered, yanking hard enough on Dean's arm to make him lose his balance and topple onto Sam. Dean didn't have time to rail at the indignities of landing on Sam or scramble off of his brother before another crack echoed through the tile walls and then the floor, tub and all dropped.

It was not a terrible long drop, but long enough to allow a yell to burst forth from both Sam and Dean Winchester. And then came the landing, the all important element of any flight. It was equivalent to getting tossed into a wall by a pissed off ghost, a cement wall and a very, very pissed, strong ghost. For a moment neither brother could draw in a breath, their breath having literally been knocked from them. Then they left out a collective moan and began to untangle themselves.

Dean pushed himself off of Sam only to find himself sinking back against the other end of the tub as his head pounded and blood leaked from the cut lip he had sustained when his jaw connected with the side of the tub. '_Just add another injury to the tally_,' he sarcastically thought.

His back having received the brunt of the impact, Sam had to force every breath amid his bruised muscles. But the pain was a price he paid willingly, grateful that he had been able to shield Dean from the full abuse of the landing. Blinking in the dusty air of the room, he saw Dean leaning against the other end of the tub, a hand raised to his head. "Hey, are you alright?" Sam asked anxiously, sitting up and reaching forward to put his hand on Dean's shoulder.

"I'll let you know later," Dean tiredly supplied, resting his head back on the tub, his eyes drifting overhead. "Sammmm!" he yelled in warning, causing Sam to look heavenward and see the ceiling in what was once their bathroom on fire.

Latching onto Dean's arm, Sam yanked Dean over the edge of the tub as he made the leap himself. Gripping Dean around the waist, Sam kept his brother on his feet. Then together, they stumbled forward toward the door, not stopping as something crashed behind them, namely the motel roof unto the tub. Sam barely broke stride as his shoulder connected with the room door, flinging it open.

Then they were surrounded by the blessedly smog choked sky, noisy urban traffic and asphalt parking lot. But Sam didn't stop his momentum; forcing Dean's weakened body to manage a few more steps hoping to achieve a relatively safe distance before they collapsed. The explosion that erupted from the motel bowled them to the ground.

Having barely gotten over his hard contact with the parking lot, Sam scrambled toward Dean, covering his brother's prone body with his own, his head pressed against Dean's as his arms sheltered Dean's head as debris rained around them. Even if it were with his last breath, Sam swore that no more harm would come to Dean.

When Sam no longer felt the pelt of debris, he raised his head form Dean's and looked back to the motel. Their room and the room below looked like one of Barbie's dream house models, the front walls missing, allowing the innards to be visible to the world, the flames that flickered in the rooms looked like some special effects on a cheap horror movie. Returning his focus back to his all too still brother under him, Sam's voice hitched in fear, "Dean!"

"Get off me, Sammy!" Dean choked out which didn't diminish the threat in his words if Sam chose to disobey him.

Smiling, Sam tiredly rolled off of Dean and lay on his back on the parking lot asphalt, his eyes on the sky a moment before his head rolled to the right, his sparkling eyes meeting Dean's. "The sun's down, Dean. It's dusk," even his exhaustion couldn't dampen the elation in his voice.

"Ahhhh…thank God," Dean sighed in reverent gratitude, only able to raise himself up on his elbows far enough to rest his forehead on the ground.

Sam was torn between option a) wanting to force Dean to lay still, to calling an ambulance and option b) helping Dean to his feet and escape whatever repressions there were for burning up a motel room. In the end, it was one of his father's rules that made his decision, '_What we do, how we do it, no one will understand that, certainly not the police. So don't stick around to plead your case to them, just leave before the smoke clears. Save you and yours first and foremost, that's our law, the only law you need to worry about keeping._'

Coming off the ground into a crouch, Sam gripped Dean's arm and positioned his other arm once again around Dean's waist. "Time to get out of here, Dean," he gently but forcefully stated, his words enough to get Dean in motion, struggling, even with Sam's help to regain his feet.

Swaying against Sam as he stood, Dean latched onto Sam's shirt to steady himself. Turning his face up to his brother's, Dean warned, "If you _ever_ tell another single soul that we huddled together in a tub, I'll kill you, Sammy."

"Yeah, like I want that to get out," Sam snorted, steering Dean toward the Impala. He wasn't prepared for Dean to suddenly stop as if he just stepped into fresh cement. "Dean!" he called in worry, turning to see Dean wearing an astonished, yet elated look.

"How? The kid he …?" Dean stammered, mesmerized by the sight of his Impala waiting obediently for him in the parking lot. He turned stunned yet sparkling eyes on Sam.

Urging Dean forward, Sam smart alecked, "If you love something, let it go…" his brother's playful slap to the back of his head had him breaking off into laughter. "Fine, I'll tell you later." And he released Dean as the older man got in the passenger side without complaint.

Running around the car, Sam sank down into the driver's seat and started the engine. He was reaching to shift it from park when Dean's hand covered his hand, causing him to look worriedly to Dean.

His eyes on the burning room, Dean stammered, "Dad's journal," and reached for the door handle. When Sam's arm suddenly braced against his chest, Dean looked to his brother, a protest on his lips.

"I got the journal," Sam quickly announced, pulling it from his jacket's interior pocket only far enough so Dean could see it before sliding it back in its protected place. As Dean relaxed back against the seat, a tired relieved smile on his face, Sam pulled his arm away, set the car in reverse and intended to put as much distance between them and the burning inferno that was once their motel room as he could in the shortest amount of time.

As Sam nervously checked the rearview mirror, praying that a police cruiser was not stalking them, smoke inhalation induced coughs seized Dean, causing Sam to worriedly divert his look to his brother. Uncoiling the tight grip of his right hand from the steering wheel, Sam land his hand on Dean's left arm, "You alright, Dean?" his eyes swiveling from the road to his brother and back again.

His hand braced against his ribs to diminish the jarring the air depriving cough was delivering to his injured midsection, Dean groused, "Yeah," only to be followed by more coughs. Bowing forward under the onslaught, Dean placed his right hand on the dashboard to ensure he didn't do a header into the glove compartment.

Helplessly watching Dean suffer now, after dusk, Sam felt pain and grief and fury claw at his chest. It was over! The curse had taken its best shot and lost! It was unfair that Dean was still hurting, still plagued with the aftereffects of the day's brutal events. So it was an answer to his prayers that a red traffic light forced their escape to a standstill, allowing him to throw the car into park and nearly dive over the seat, his long arms searching the floor of the back seat until his fingers latched onto what he sought. Dragging himself again into his seat, Sam triumphantly held up his half full bottle of water.

"Dean, here, take small swallows," he gently instructed, unscrewing the lid and holding the bottle in front of Dean's bowed head.

Striving to strangle the coughs in his throat, Dean used his right hand to push himself to an upright position and took the water from his brother. He almost had it to his lips before he shot a look to Sam, whose eyes were latched onto him, oblivious to the change of the traffic light to green. Dean wheezed out, "After all I've been through today, now you're trying to kill me with your Sammy spit?"

It got a snort from Sam before the younger Winchester ordered, "Just drink it, you jerk." A honk of a horn brought Sam back to the rules of the road and he put the Impala in motion, his eyes still flickering to Dean. A sliver of tension eased from him as Dean's cough was effectively vanquished by the water.

Leaning against the seat, Dean wiped some excess water off his mouth by the back of his right hand and reveled in the pleasure of having air flow through his lungs again. Knowing Sam's gaze was on him more than the road, Dean used what energy he had to ease the tension that was rolling off of his brother. "Dude, watch the road not me! I already lost this car once today I'm not going to let you…"

"The car!" Sam exploded, "Lost the car! After everything that happened today and …" his words died in his throat as he was treated to his brother wane but pleased smirk. '_Darn it! I fell for it again! Him jokingly using the car as a deflection_!' Shaking his head he bit his lip, so grateful to _hear_ Dean overly obsess about his beloved Impala, even jokingly. "Dean, today…" he softly began only to earn Dean's standard whine.

"Sammy, let's not turn this into an after school special," Dean cut in, knowing that his emotional barriers were too low to withstand any of Sam's chick flick sentiments. Later, after about twenty four hours of sleep, then he could take whatever feelings Sam wanted to express and grouse at every word while he clutched greedily onto them, stashing them somewhere deep in his heart.

Though his brother's reaction was expected, Sam found it ignited in him a need to set some things straight between them. "Fine. Then let's talk about what you said back in the Mexican restaurant."

"The Mexican restaurant!" Dean incredulously repeated, wincing as his usual raised eyebrow gesture spiked pain into his gashed open forehead. Restricting his facial responses, Dean continued, "Sam that was hours ago. If I were a cat, it was nine lives ago. It is ancient history, said and done." While Sam's jaw clenched ready to unleash his refusal to drop the matter, Dean's brow mutinously scrunched up in confusion. "What did I say back in the restaurant?"

His determined eyes swinging between Dean and the road, Sam answered Dean's question with a question. "How many people _in the world_ would have figured out a way to get out of that room alive, Dean? But you did. You with your crazy, pull it out of your butt, _brilliant_ stunts. Man, Dean, how could you even _think_ that I thought you were dumb! Stunts like you did back there, they are _always_ saving us. Even when you were a freaking little kid, you could always outthink whatever was trying to take us out."

Instead of beaming with the praise, Dean dropped his eyes to the seat between them and mumbled something Sam couldn't decipher.

"What? What did you say Dean?" Sam gently coaxed, sounding like he was talking to a shy child.

Raising his head, Dean snapped, ashamed at having earned that tone from Sam and frustrated with his failings, "I said, 'it didn't work.' My plan."

"What? Yeah it did. It blew a hole right through the wall into the other room," Sam vouched, his eyes turning worried as the thought of Dean's memory being a little off struck him.

"Yeah, but we didn't _go_ through the hole. Well, not that one," Dean shot back. "The one in the floor, yeah, the one in the wall, my hole, we didn't use it Sam. It didn't do us a bit of good. It was just by stupid dumb luck that the floor…"

"No," Sam interjected, "the floor only gave way _because_ of your explosion. And if that hadn't happened we would have used your hole to get to the other room." Coming to another red light, Sam turned in the seat to face Dean, his voice conveying his unwavering conviction of his words, "You saved us, Dean." As a surprised but pleased expression flashed on his brother's face, Sam smiled and quipped, "Now shut up and take the credit."

Dean couldn't fight off his own smile as he allowed, "Fine, but I'm only taking half the credit." He paused long enough to give Sam the false hope that he would bestow the other credit on him, "MacGyver gets the other half."

Sam laughed but offered up a mock protest "What about me? Don't I get any credit for our survival?"

"You! Mr '_you're having another heart attack?now_!'" Dean countered, a gleam in his eyes easing the harsh lines of fatigue that laid claim to his features.

When his eyes clashed with Dean's laughing green gaze, Sam laughed out loud, his protests forgotten entirely as Dean's laughter joined his own. "You're the one yelling for your heart medicine, doing your Fred Sanford imitation," Sam retorted, his words choked by laughter, a part of him so surprised, so relieved to be able to laugh about Dean's past heart problems.

Dean couldn't reply, he was laughing too hard, bending over, bracing his ribs against the bittersweet release. "Stop…" he gasped out among his laughter, "It hurts…don't make me laugh…Sammy. Stop, please."

"Alright, alright, truce," Sam magnanimously agreed, his laughter dying down to a smirk, watching as Dean's own laughter did the same.

Unwinding from his curled position, Dean relaxed backwards, head cushioned on the seat. It felt wonderful to laugh after the day he had had, felt even better to have Sam at his side. "So, the last thing I remember before waking up in our room is plowing into the kid," he offhandedly drawled, purposefully offering a kinder gentler version of his "last thing". Sam didn't need to know that his true last conscious sensation had been the feel of the impact of each bullet as it struck him, convincing him that the lead was tearing through muscle, bone, his heart. "So how'd I end up with you?"

"Bet you say that to all the girls," Sam joked but when his mocking gaze collided with Dean's steady no nonsense green eyes, he sobered instantly. "Alright, but first tell me how some guy ended up driving the Impala," Sam bartered, knowing that blackmail was the most effective way to learn what his brother had been through during his absence.

Sam saw hesitation flash in Dean's eyes before they dropped from his and Dean mumbled something incoherent. "What Dean?" he asked, using his gentle tone, feeling he was dealing with a skittish animal that he had unknowingly backed into a corner.

Dean knew, without a doubt, that Sam was not going to drop his line of questioning. If he wanted to have his missing time filled in by Sam, he'd have to return the favor. Sighing in defeat, he met Sam's eyes and very clearly said, "The Impala conked out on me. Dude came along and stole her," his eye's sparkling with a challenge to Sam just _daring_ him to make light of it and see what happens.

Finding absolutely no humor in his brother's telling statement, Sam, instead, was filled with confusion. "Wait, you said the Impala quit on you. Then how'd the guy _steal _it? I mean, let me tell you, it was running just great when I saw it…"

Tired of the interrogation, Dean angrily confessed, "It started right up for the gangbanger, alright," his eyes blazing into Sam's. "Nothing for me, wouldn't even turn over and then it just purrs to life for some ….stranger."

It was hard for Sam to fight the smile that wanted to leap to his face. Dean's wounded tone, jealousy, over a _car_, it was just…funny.

Seeing Sam's lips tip up ever so slightly, Dean warned dangerously, "Dude, if you even …"

"No, no, I understand," Sam quickly interjected, his humor evaporating as he realized the real issue. His head swinging from the road to Dean's set look and back again, he expanded, "It was like another betrayal. I get it, Dean. I do."

Silence met Sam's words but Dean's eyes lost their fire. Deciding that it was his turn to uphold their bargain, Sam revealed, "The kid that stole your car, he told me where he last saw you. I got there in time to see you do your hero dive in front of the kid." His tone was light, nonchalant, like seeing his brother take three bullets was a run of the mill every day occurrence that could no longer evoke a reaction out of him, hiding the fact that even now, the memory had the power to close up his throat, cause tears to threaten and his stomach to churn.

Ignoring Sam's pointed reference to his extremely close brush with death, Dean pressed on the issue that most interested him. "Wait, you found the kid that stole the Impala and _made_ him talk?" his eyes studying Sam for more details than his brother would verbalize.

"Yes," Sam firmly boasted, his eyes divided between his driving and his brother's incredulous look. "I can be very persuasive Dean."

"And you just happened to find him _and _the Impala!" Dean pressed, obviously disbelieving that any good luck had found its way into the day. "You have a vision or something?"

"No! I was out looking for you and the Impala streaked by and I…I got in the car and encouraged the kid to tell me where you were," Sam stated without frills, downplaying the antics he had gone through to achieve his face to face talk with the kid.

"I would have loved to see the look on that kid's face when you opened the door and hopped into the passenger's seat," Dean enviously admitted.

His brother's envy encouraged Sam to venture into the realm of truth and trust. "Well, I kinda had to jump in through the window," his voice lower, uncertain of Dean's reception to his words.

"What?" Dean squawked, wondering if his hearing was getting worse instead of better.

Shooting Dean a look of desperation, Sam justified, "Dean, he was gonna take off, ….so I jumped in the car."

"Through the window?' Dean restated his eyebrows rising only to drop a moment later as logic kicked in. "The window was down, right?"

"How hard did you hit your head today! Course the window was down," Sam snapped back but Dean's snort and cocky smile wiped away all of his frustration. A moment later a feral gleam settled in Sam's eyes. "Kid was playing _rap music_ in _your car_, out of _your speakers_ when I caught up with him."

Dean's stricken look was all the payback Sam needed. "_Rap music_! Out of _my _speakers! _These_ speakers!" Dean exclaimed, pointing to the front speakers as if the very concept was making him ill.

"Who knows how long he was playing the _rap_ music…you know, before I came to the Impala's rescue," Sam baited cruelly, his lips twisting up into a smile as Dean's eyes narrowed.

"Sam, just shut up," Dean retorted, slouching down further in the seat, as if his new position could ward off his brother's taunts.

"I think he was playing Eminem when I …" Sam said unmercifully.

"Shut your pie hole, Sam, I mean it," Dean growled, glaring at his brother before he turned his head forward and closed his eyes. "Wake me up when it's tomorrow…or better yet, when it is two tomorrows from now."

Sam smirked as he contently managed to take his eyes off the road long enough to steal views of Dean slouched in the passenger seat of the Impala, his breathing quickly changing to a lighter pattern indicating sleep was near. As he maneuvered the Impala onto the interstate that would take them out of the city, Sam ran his hand over the car's dashboard and quietly said, "You ever betray him again and you're scrape metal. We clear on that?" The Impala made no reply but it's engine did not falter as Sam gave it more gas. Sam wasn't sure what made him feel more foolish, the fact that he had just threatened a car or his belief that the car took his threat very seriously.

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TBC

Thank you so much for reading this chapter! And as always, I would love to hear your thoughts on it! To my reviewers, you guys are the best! You help me strive to make each chapter better than the one before!

Warning: Fluff alert! The final chapter is all about fluff, tying up loose ends, and fluff again so if that's not your cup of tea, bail now. However, for those addicted to fluff like I am, I hope you'll stick around for the final chapter. Oh and of course to learn the outlook for Dean's next September 21st.

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	11. Chapter 11: Water under the Bridge

Sanctuary

By: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, Dean or Sam, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Notes: I apologize for the delay in posting this chapter and for its wordiness. Hope you'll forgive me both transgressions!

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Chapter 11: Water under the Bridge (aka the end)

Crouching down by the Impala's passenger door, Sam felt regret tear through him as he noted how deeply Dean slept. Waking him up seemed cruel, even if it was to prod him into a motel room, a _nice_ motel room this time, one with windows, and a regard for fire regulations. Rapping his knuckles on the passenger window, Sam was surprised and concerned when Dean didn't react, at all.

Grabbing onto the passenger door handle with a shaking hand, Sam flung the door open, its familiar creak loud in the fall night. "Dean!" His hands fell onto his brother's shoulder, ready to shake him awake, cursing himself for not waking Dean sooner, for not thinking of the slight concussion he had earlier diagnosed in Dean.

His brother's frantic call and the desperate hands that gripped onto his shoulder jarred Dean reluctantly back to consciousness. Blinking, Dean found the car's internal lights an unwelcome greeting on his still dilated eyes. Turning away from the glare, Dean was met with the sight of his brother's shadowed face. "Sam?" he groggily acknowledged, his eyes barely remaining open. "You sure it's been two tomorrows already? Feels like you're cheating me some time here?"

'_Leave it to Dean to wake up being a smart aleck even when he's sporting a concussion,'_' Sam thought fondly, his panic washing away as quickly as it had surged over him. Quietly he teasingly refuted "You forget, you're the cheat, Dean. Not me. I'm just initiating a change of location. Come on, a nice soft bed's waiting for you," he coaxed, withdrawing from the interior of the car. Wrapping his hand around Dean's elbow, he gave it a small tug.

With a long suffering sigh, his eyes still squinting, Dean responded to Sam's tug and began maneuvering himself from the car. When Sam wrapped his arm around his waist and drew Dean's arm over his shoulders, Dean meekly submitted to his brother's ministrations. Protesting Sam's assistance, or taking stock of his surroundings, or making some poor attempt at concealing the fact that he was beyond wasted after the day's events was out of the question. Finding that he couldn't even conjure up the _desire_ for such tactics, let alone the energy to do them, he was just pleasantly surprised that he could put one foot in front of the other.

Supporting most of Dean's weight, Sam steadfastly headed for their motel room, somewhat unnerved at Dean's easy capitulation to his help, stumbling steps, and eerie silence. Halting at the room door, Sam withdrew the access card from his pocket and swiped it in the door lock. Green was again a welcome color.

As they crossed the threshold, Sam was intent on making a bee line for the beds. Dean's hand wrapping around the door to the bathroom halted their progress. Fearing that Dean's actions were frontrunners to his brother's collapse, Sam tightened his hold on Dean, his eyes flying to Dean's with worry.

"Nature's screaming," Dean mumbled to Sam's questioning look, slipping his arm off of Sam's shoulder. For a moment, Dean didn't think Sam was going to let go of him, the grip of his brother's fingers on his bruised ribs intensifying instead of weakening. "Sam.." he gently said, uncertain what words he would say after that. As it turned out, none were needed as Sam disengaged himself from Dean and took a step backwards. Dean was caught off guard by the disconcerted look in his brother's eyes but before he could react, Sam walked over to the table. Sparing his brother a worried look, Dean stood still a moment before he tiredly shuffled the few steps to the bathroom and shut the door.

Dropping the room card and the Impala keys onto the table's wood surface, Sam ran a hand across the back of his neck. '_It's past dusk, Sam! Get yourself pulled together. Dean's fine, you can let him out of your sight. He's not going anywhere._' Hanging his head, he took in a deep breath but it trembled out of his lungs. '_Too close. I came too close to losing Dean!' _And no matter what Dean had said, Sam couldn't shake the soul destroying thought that Dean had been ready to die, couldn't blot out the memory of the resigned look in Dean's eyes as he ordered Sam from the motel room.

Sam nearly jumped as his cell phone rang. Hastily digging his phone from his coat pocket, he found a text message illuminated across the screen. It consisted of only four numbers: 411. Instantly Sam knew it was from John Winchester, demanding to know what the heck was going on with his sons, _this time_. '_We request an unscheduled meeting and he starts texting us. A son suffering a heart attack, dying? He couldn't be bothered with even replying. Oh, yeah, Dean, just Dad and I on the road, that would have been fun. You would have gotten one text message from Dad leading you to the sight of the double murder, Dad's and mine,_' Sam sourly envisioned, ready to put his phone back in his pocket when he noticed he had another message waiting.

Bracing himself for another cryptic, yet demanding text from his father, Sam was surprised to hear Dean's voice emerge from the cell phone's speakers. "Sam, it's Dean. I know you're ….well, pissed that I split on you but this is the way things need to play out today. I called Dad, told him we would hook up with him at Caleb's at midnight tonight. So I'll meet you there. Goodbye, Sam." With his pulse jumping in his clenched jaw, Sam exited the message with a viciously keystroke and a growled profanity.

When Dean emerged from the bathroom and nearly ran into a stone faced Sam, he felt like he had walked right into an ambush. "Sam.." he started, already knowing that he needed to arm himself with knowledge to win whatever battle Sam was initiating.

Sam hissed, "You lying bastard!" stepping forward, his full lanky frame tingling with anger, towering threateningly over Dean. "You had no _intention_ of going to Caleb's, did you! You lied to me, Dean! What if that had been the last thing you said to me! A lie!"

"You're right," Dean remorsefully apologized, only to have that quick boyish smile of his make an appearance a moment later, a smile that telegraphed to Sam, loud and clear, that his apology didn't hold water. Dean's next words confirmed it. "I should have said it with a Hallmark card. I'll do that next time," Dean wisecracked, his face serious before that quick smile flashed again. Slipping by a stunned Sam, Dean crawled across the nearest bed's length and sank down onto the mattress, face buried in the pillow, uncaring that he was on top of the covers and not under them.

Being a spectator to his brother's collapse, Sam let his compassion overrode his anger, for the time being. Sighing, he crossed the room and sat Indian style on the other bed, resolved to his next responsibility. With a few keystrokes on his phone's keypad, his call was initiated. He waited half in dread and half in anticipation for his father's voice either live or recorded to slip back into his life.

Curious at hearing Sam's sigh of reluctance, Dean turned his head to watch Sam, his eyes asking the question his mouth was too tired to utter. When Sam's eyes met his, he received an eye roll in reply.

When his father's voice message had kicked in, Sam hadn't been able to resist sending the eye roll to Dean. '_Dad not answering his phone, what a shocker!' _Then the beep came and Sam found his voice automatically dropping into its obedient son tone_. "_Dad, it's Sam. There's no need for us to meet up. Ah, ok, bye." Then Sam quickly disconnected the call as if any beat of silence during his message would communicate something to his father that he didn't want to convey, like fear or relief or need.

Disagreeing with the vagueness of Sam's message, Dean mumbled a protest, his heavy eyes on his brother. "Sam, you didn't tell him …"

Carelessly tossing his phone on the night stand, Sam gruffly stated, "He knows my number. He can call me back." Watching Dean's eyes fall shut, Sam knew he had to move though his body was screaming at him to mirror Dean's prone position. Coming to stand at the end of Dean's bed, Sam lightly slapped Dean's ankle and ordered, "Roll over, Dean."

It took Dean a moment to reopen his burning eyes, to process his brother's words. "What? Why?" he crankily griped, sounding more like he was six instead of twenty six.

"Shoes, Dean. You still have your shoes on and I need to look at your head," Sam gently explained, again feeling like the older brother in the relationship. But unlike earlier in the day, now that feeling wasn't choking him with fear, instead it was making him smile tenderly.

"You can see my head right where it is," Dean grumbled, his words, muffled by the pillow still cushioning his head, were barely understandable.

"Dean…" Sam drawled, his tone between a warning and a plea, unknowingly falling back into his little brother mode.

It was the tone Dean couldn't ignore. His big brother heart wouldn't _let_ him ignore. With a sound that was a cross between a moan and a growl, Dean rolled onto his back, his eyes shooting a glare to Sam. A glare Sam was oblivious to as his freakishly long fingers made quick work of the shoelaces on Dean's boots.

Having freed Dean's feet from the boots, Sam came to stand beside Dean's head. His brother's eyes were closed, making his pale face more heartbreaking to Sam. Gingerly, Sam touched Dean's forehead beside the newest gash. When Dean recoiled from his touch, Sam jerked his hand back. It took Dean's opaque eyes a few blinks before Sam saw recognition spark in their depths. "Sorry. Sorry, man. I didn't think you were asleep," Sam hurriedly apologized, his hands in Dean's line of sight, reassuring the injured man that he would not startle him again with his touch.

"Mmmmhhh," came from Dean before he groggily insisted, "I'm fine, Sam. Head's fine, shoes are fine." Starting to roll to his side, Dean let out a long groan mid motion and fell back into his previous position.

With concern, Sam gripped his brother's shoulder and leaned over him, eyes boring into Dean's. "What is it, Dean! Your ribs hurt? You have some internal pain?"

A smirk tipped up Dean's lips. Seeing the concern in his brother's eyes dip dangerously toward anger, Dean hesitantly modified his response to, "I'm fine, Sammy. It's the vest. " Dropping his hand to his chest, he lightly tapped it, indicating the unseen bullet proof vest. "I'm still wearing the stupid Kevlar vest. It's heavy and starting to rub my first layer of skin off."

"That stupid vest saved your life," Sam chided quietly, afraid that speaking the words louder would unleash the emotions that the vest evoked in him. As Dean's brow creased in inquiry, signaling to Sam that his stoic mask was nearly useless under the scrutiny of his brother's observant eyes, Sam gruffly ordered, "Alright, sit up," hoping to forestall Dean's probing questions.

Slipping his hand in Dean's, Sam slowly pulled Dean upright, wincing as his brother's face paled in pain and his arm pressed harder against his ribs. Once Dean was sitting up, balanced on the side of the bed, Sam, with Dean's quiet assistance, carefully managed to slip the t-shirt over Dean's head to reveal the Kevlar vest. With gentle motions, Sam pulled apart the Velcro seams on both sides of the vest and then slipped the armored garment over Dean's head. Convinced that if he saw the bullets still lodged in the back of the durable fabric, if he saw how far the bullets had penetrated the vest's layer, if he knew, with clinical proof, how close each bullet had come to tearing into his brother's flesh, that his emotional floodgate would be swept away, Sam didn't inspect the vest but tossed it over the bed to land on the floor.

Without turning around to witness the vest arch through the air to land with a thud on the floor, Dean fixed his eyes on Sam, striving to determine why 'Mr. the-floor-is-not-a-drawer' was breaking his own rules. When Sam's eyes skittered away from his probing look, Dean mockingly reprimanded, "Hey, take care of that vest, it saved my life you know."

"Jerk," Sam shot back, finding himself smiling amid his anguish, scorning himself for encouraging his brother's shenanigans.

"Prick," Dean returned in kind, smug smile to counter's Sam's smile. Too quickly, Dean viewed the transformation of Sam's smile into a concerned scowl, his eyes leaving his green gaze. "What?" Dean asked, following Sam's troubled gaze to his own torso. Tilting his head back up, he quipped, "Black and blue is the new tan, haven't you heard?" dismissing the bruises marring his left and right sides.

"Yeah, real stylish…if you're the crash test dummy," Sam sullenly countered, angry all over again at the abuse his brother had endured, abuse that _he_ had ineffectually protected Dean against. "And our first aid kit's …gone," finding that he couldn't even whisper out the word "ash", the humor of their near escape suddenly eluding him.

Sensing Sam's anger was more about fear than fury, Dean tilted his head up to Sam, waited until his brother's eyes met his before he spoke. "So we get another one. We didn't lose anything we can't replace, Sam," his tone comforting and certain, the meaning of his words delving to the depths of what drove Sam's fear.

And there it was, everything Sam needed to hear, all delivered in Dean's cryptic, sparse, and straight into your heart gifted way with words. Through all the danger and fear and verbal battles, they had not lost each other, not today and not two years ago when Sam had broken off contact between them. Their connection was still there, changed yes, but still fierce, still essential to their individual survival, still the thing they each valued most in the world.

A teasing glint entered Sam's eyes, "You're just saying that because you got the Impala back."

"Darn, straight," Dean agreed, his slick grin washing over his pale features, earning a smirk and a shaking head from Sam.

When Dean yawned widely, Sam stood up and offered as he started to head for the door, "I'll get you some ice to put on…" but Dean's hand shot out and seized his wrist.

Dean's eyes were dulled with pain but intense as they settled on Sam's face. "Sam, I'm climbing under the covers and falling asleep the instant my head hits the pillow, end of story. I'm not going to freeze my butt off clutching some towel full of ice all night. Trust me when I say, _nothing_ is going to keep me awake tonight."

"You should…" Sam began to insist but Dean interjected with a tired voice and a weakened version of his cocky smile.

"Yeah, but I won't and you can't make me. Now help me up," Dean ordered, releasing his hold on Sam's wrist to slip his hand in Sam's and started to come to his feet before his brother could protest.

Doing as his brother asked, Sam pulled up on the hand in his grasp and wrapped his other hand around Dean's other elbow. Uncertain of his brother's next action, Sam didn't relinquish either of his holds on Dean.

Realizing that he couldn't move a muscle until Sam released him, Dean quietly said, "Dude, you're totally in my personal space." He almost laughed when Sam recoiled back until his legs hit the other bed, almost as if Sam hadn't been aware of how close he had been standing to Dean. Knowing from past experience that sleeping in his boxer shorts beat sleeping in jeans, hands down, Dean undid his jeans to reveal his boxer shorts. Having let the jeans drop to the floor, he stepped from them, gave them a small kick to the side before turning around to the bed, yanking back the covers and crawled into the bed as stiffly and slowly as a ninety year old man…who had gotten the tar beaten out of him in some nursing home rumble.

When Dean had turned around, Sam felt his gut clench. He fought to smother the gasp that nearly burst from him as he viewed Dean's back for the first time. Though bruises marred his brother's back instead of bullet holes, to Sam the multicolor patches of abused flesh was still a brutal testament to the merciless assault made against his brother. Dean's slow painful movements on top of that knowledge was almost more than Sam could endure, causing him to look away, his eyes shimmering even as he ached to do something to ease his brother's pain.

His breath cut off by the sharp pain in his ribs, Dean lay on his back on the bed, unmoving, his eyes closed, his jaw clenched, unable to make the effort to pull the covers over him just yet. His eyes jerked open as the covers fluttered over him, his gaze locking with Sam's as his brother gently settled the sheet and blanket over him. The simple act of Sam tucking him in put a lump in Dean's throat.

His hand still resting lightly on Dean's chest, Sam contritely forewarned, "You have a slight concussion Dean. I have to wake you up a few times to see…"

"Do and die, Sammy," Dean warned around a yawn, before he closed his eyes, fully missing the smirk his threat brought to Sam's lips.

Lifting his hand from his brother's chest, Sam couldn't resist pulling the blanket higher to cover his brother's bare shoulder. Lightly brushing Dean's spiked hair with his fingers, Sam quietly bade, "Good night Dean," to his sleeping brother.

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Unfamiliar voices jolted Sam awake, causing him to blink away the sleep. It took him a moment to determine that the voices weren't inside the room but were coming from outside. Rubbing at his eyes, he finally brought the room, and more specifically the figure in the other bed into sharp focus.

Seeing Dean's pale, cut face, it brutally hit home the truth. Yesterday hadn't been a dream or a vision he had had time to defuse. It had been real, every perilous, heartbreaking, terrifying moment.

Releasing a long breath, Sam pushed the rise of fear away. Dean was here, alive, fine. _Hurt_, he amended feeling moisture gather in his eyes as he studied his unmoving brother.

Even if proof of yesterday's danger was not evident in Dean's face, his position on the bed spoke volumes, all on pain. He lay on his side, arms wrapped around his ribs, head bent low, legs up, in some fetal position to stave off the pain. Pain that an awake, self proclaimed 'invincible' Dean Winchester never showed, never confessed to, seemingly never felt. But in sleep, his body was betraying his deception.

Seeing Dean's unshielded pain, it hurt Sam in places he thought were well guarded from assault. With bittersweet clarity, he realized that Dean had a deeper hold on him than anyone else ever had. It didn't disturb him as much as it scared him. Dean was…reckless, always balancing on a high wire, fearless and selfless. Keeping Dean with him, safe, was a momentous task, no, not task, honor. And yesterday Sam had come to know how **hard **and how vitally **imperative** the honor bestowed on him was.

But even under the crushing weight of bearing his brother's life in his hands, a small smile crept onto Sam's face, because it was worth it, all of it. A sparkle flickered to life in his eyes as he recalled waking Dean throughout the night. The first time, Dean had been too groggy to do more than correctly answer his question, "Dean. September 21st." The second time, Sam had seized his opportunity for his checkup when Dean had jolted awake from some dream. However, when his voice had broken the silence of the dark room, his questions of inquisition unchanged, Dean's head had whipped up, his eyes barely making out his brother's figure in the other bed before unleashing the reply that vanquished the lingering flutter of worry in Sam's heart. "I'm Captain freakin' James T. Kirk, Stardate you-ask-me-that-one-more-time-and-I'll-kick-your-butt Sam!'."

Sam had to swallow down a burst of laughter as he remembered Dean returning the favor a few hours later, the plastic cup Dean had sailed at him nailing him on the forehead. "What's your name? What's the date?" Dean had called across the space between the beds. Exasperated, Sam had growled, "Dean!" Before he could say more, Dean had drawled, "No, that's my name. Maybe you should drive yourself to the hospital, Sammy, get that head seen to." "You're a jerk," Sam had growled back fighting back laughter before he fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

No, out of all the things Sam had done, all the people he had saved, saving Dean topped it all, every time. Crawling from the bed, Sam stood looking down at Dean a moment before he made his way into the bathroom. As he showered, he made his plans for the day. Namely, slipping out to buy them some clothing to replace what they had lost in the fire, and grabbing some food for them, hopefully all before Dean resurrected and concocted some crazy plan for the day. Sam smiled at the thought of how Dean considered a day of recuperation went. '_We are going by my playbook today, Dean_,' he vowed, the smile still in place but resolve burning in his eyes as he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror.

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Dean opened his eyes to an unfamiliar room. It wasn't an abnormal occurrence but the disorientation usually didn't last long. But this room, with its sliding glass door, thick drapes with sunlight beaming through the sliver of space where they didn't quite overlap, this room he didn't remember. The burning room, that one he remembered, vividly. '_New room, new motel_,' came to him and remembered Sam helping him into the room, Sam mad at his voice message, Sam helping him off with his boots and the bullet proof vest, and Sam waking him up a few times to monitor his concussion. He nearly jumped when his brother spoke from the bottom of his bed.

"How are you feeling?" Sam softly asked, the subtle changes in his brother's breathing having alerted him to Dean's return to consciousness. When Dean jerked at the sound of his voice and his eyes flew to him in some fight or flight mode, Sam cursed his own stupidity. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you?" he quickly apologized, crossing to stand at Dean's side, thinking that his brother's face had picked up some color during the night, hoping it was not just wishful thinking on his part.

Looking up at Sam's remorseful face, Dean pulled on a small smile. "Just be glad my knife's not under my pillow like it normally is." Before he could think better of it, Dean started his normal routine of stretching. "Agh.." he moaned, his stretch stopped almost instantly as his whole body screamed in protest, his arms bracing his ribs again.

Bending down to be eye level with Dean, Sam, fearing that Dean would cut him off, let his words rush from his lips. "I know you are in pain and your muscles are probably pretty stiff but I have an idea of what might help." He was braced for Dean's denials, his gruff rebukes, Dean's capitulation was like a sucker punch.

"I'm willing to try just about anything," Dean groaned, stiffly pushing himself to sit on the side of the bed, finding Sam's hands supporting his every pained move. Achieving his goal, Dean felt the room sway a moment before it clicked into place. Then Sam was picking up his hand and dropping pills into his palm and handing him a glass of water. Without protest, he downed the pills in one swallow but thirstily drained the glass of its liquid content. Then Sam pulled the empty glass from his hand and replaced it with an article of clothing.

Dean's eyes shot to Sam's in surprise, "Swimming trunks?"

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Though Dean had said he was 'willing to try just about anything', it took Sam a considerable amount of arguing, and coaxing to get Dean to agree to his idea. So it was a miracle of sorts when the Winchesters found themselves walking down the hallway toward the indoor heated pool and Jacuzzi. Sporting the swimming trunks and a tshirt that he had bought for himself, Sam shot a sly glance to Dean who walked stiffly at his side, who was also wearing new swimming trunks and a new white t-shirt, a shirt Sam knew Dean wouldn't remove, adamant about concealing his badly bruised torso.

"It's gonna be wall to wall screaming kids," Dean ill temperedly grumbled, frustrated that every breath he drew hurt, that every step he took was an effort, that Sam's tendency to latch onto his arm was not so much a nuisance but a comfort.

Deciding to handle this gripe like he had the last ten, Sam made silence his reply as he swung open the door to the pool, a totally deserted pool and Jacuzzi. Unable to help himself, he sent a gloating smile to Dean.

"If you can't be good, be lucky," Dean mumbled, causing Sam to laugh as they made their way to two reclining beach chairs. Silently, they tossed their towels on a chair and kicked off their shoes. As Sam withdrew the room access card from his pocket and dropped it on top of the towels, Dean made his way toward the pool.

"Dean, don't get your bullet wound wet," Sam sternly instructed, starting to follow his brother's lead.

"Yeah, yeah," was Dean's aggravated reply, right before he leapt off the side of the pool and sank under the water at the 8 foot end of the pool. By the time Dean's head broke the surface, Sam was on his third round of curses as he stood on the side of the pool, hands waving through the air with his words, words that were muffled to Dean's now water logged ears.

"Dean if your bullet wound gets infected…" Sam's voice rose, his worry barely edging out his anger at Dean's recklessness.

"This water therapy is just the trick, Sammy. I think I'm nearly cured already," Dean boasted, offering Sam a big brash smile showcasing his straight white teeth. With a set jaw, Sam turned on his heel and headed for the Jacuzzi. "Sam, where ya going. I hear this germ infested pool water will cure whatever ails you!" Dean called out to his brother's retreating back.

Whatever hand gesture Sam was going to offer to Dean was halted mid motion as the pool door flung open and a sea of young boys ran into the room, five of them cannonballing into the pool without missing a step, drenching Dean. Water running down his face, in his ears, in his eyes, Dean swiped his vision clear enough to shoot Sam a scathing look but his brother's response was to break out into laughter, his finger pointing at Dean. Revenge was so sweet, especially when it couldn't be linked directly to you.

The sound of yelling boys, water splashing and the rough voice of a man calling out rules to his Boy Scout troop echoed through the room, decimating the calmness that existing only a moment ago. Sam stood among the mayhem a moment, coming to hate Dean for being right. Shooting a questioning look to Dean, he expected a signal from Dean to vacate the premises. Instead Dean smirked and waved Sam toward the Jacuzzi as he himself moved to the deeper end. Stripping off his t-shirt, Sam stepped down in the bubbling water of the still vacant Jacuzzi. Relaxing back against the Jacuzzi wall, he contently watched the activities in the pool.

However, when a football was introduced into the pool games, Sam tensed, watching as three of the boys took up a position near Dean to receive the ball. As the ball sailed toward that end of the pool for the first time, instigating the boys to dive wildly to complete the pass, Sam felt fear tighten his insides as he envisioned one of the boys slamming into Dean or a mis-thrown ball making contact with Dean's already battered body. Sam began to stand up, intent on making his way to Dean and insisting that Dean get out of the pool. Dean saved him the trouble by moving toward the shallow, nearly vacant end of the pool.

Reclaiming his seat in the Jacuzzi, Sam couldn't tear his attention from Dean, a Dean who luckily was oblivious to his brother's protective gaze. A smile turned up Sam's lips as a boy smaller than the most of the other scouts made his way to Dean's side and initiated a conversation with the older man. Even from his vantage point, Sam could see the way Dean's face softened as he interacted with the boy. Sam, Dean and the boy were all startled when the football splashed down only an inch away from Dean's bruised ribs.

It took Dean's hand on the football to set Sam's heart into his throat as he realized the damage his brother could inflict on himself if he decided to perform his award winning football throw with an arm sporting a bullet wound, cracked ribs and bruises upon bruises. Instantly, Sam was on his feet, ready to yell Dean's name menacingly across the room in that hated "parent" tone. The yell never left Sam. The sight of Dean handing the ball to the boy at his side made the threat unnecessary. Still standing, Sam watched his brother place the football properly in the boy's small hands, step behind the boy and put his hand on the boy's thin arm and guide the thin arm into the proper football motion two times before he released his hold. On his own, the boy sent the ball flying, a perfect pass to the other end of the pool. It was enough to earn the small boy an invitation into the older boy's football game.

Smiling at the boy's success, Dean crossed to the pool steps and slowly climbed free of the water. With motions remarkable less stiff and sore than they were before his pool time, Dean walked to the Jacuzzi. His brother's goofy smile greeted him. "Yeah, so," he challenged to the teasing look in Sam's eyes as he put his foot on the first step of the Jacuzzi.

"Dean you can't with your ribs…" Sam objected, sitting up in alarm.

Disregarding his brother's disapproval, Dean continued his descent into the Jacuzzi. He slowly sank down into the hot water to claim a seat, grimacing both at the heat and the water's none too gentle pressure. When a jet of water hit his severely bruised back like a punch, a yelp of pain sneaked through his clenched jaw. Before he could shake off the pain enough to move, a strong familiar hand yanked him to the left, safely out of the line of the jets of water.

Safely positioned away from the strongest currents of the water, Dean leaned back against the wall. It took a moment more before Sam's hand dropped from his arm. Sneaking an assessing look to Sam from under lowered lashes, Dean geared himself for a lecture that Sam's expression warned would be a long, heated one. When four boys chose that moment to pile into the Jacuzzi, Dean realized he had never been so glad to see Boy Scouts in his life. He sent a smug grin to Sam.

Reading Dean's relief at the interruption, Sam couldn't help toss out a taunt. "Hiding behind children, Dean?" The said children oblivious to everything but the water battle they were now waging.

Whatever smart comeback Dean was primed to make turned into a grunt of pain as one of the Boy Scout's elbows made direct contact with his ribs. And that was it for Sam. Without thought his hand wrapped around the boy's arm, pulling him away from his brother. "Time's up, kid. Hit the pool," he ordered, his voice low, just a breath away from menacing as he used his hold on the boy to propel him toward the Jacuzzi's stairs.

The boy wisely made his escape, his friends hot on his heels.

Watching the boys streak across the wet cement and seek the safer realm of the pool, Dean turned incredulous eyes on his brother. "Gee Sam, you trying to make the kids cry."

Sam's comeback was immediate, his eyes meeting Dean's steadily, "My job's to make sure _you_ don't cry," and he pulled a small smile onto his lips, taking the edge off his words, off his vow.

Dean smirked and shook his head. Sometimes Sam surprised the heck out of him. As Sam levered himself out of the Jacuzzi to sit on the cement that rimmed the Jacuzzi, leaving his legs dangling in the water, Dean saw the bruises on his brother's side, thigh and knee. "What happened! How'd you get those bruises! Are they all from that tree limb?" Dean demanded, sitting up, his eyes intent, feeling sick all over again at the thought that Sam had gotten hurt protecting him.

As if he had forgotten about the bruises, Sam looked down, inspected the progress of the bruising before he looked up to Dean's worried expression. "I'm fine, Dean," he proclaimed calmly, taking a page out of his older brother's book.

An incredulously look settled on Dean's pale, bruised face, "Fine! Sam, you have bruises down your whole left side!" Deducing that the tree limb could not be the culprit for his brother's injuries, Dean felt dread build up in his chest. "What happened while I was gone, Sam?" he demanded, his voice thick, his eyes holding a combination of compassion and resolve.

"Besides me going out of my head with worry for you, you mean?" Sam leveled the accusation at Dean, his emotions balancing on the narrow ledge between anger and anguish. Before Dean could make a reply, Sam bitterly recounted, "Well, let's see, I got ditched by my brother at the park and I ran the whole way back to our motel, but he was gone, no explanation, no note, no goodbye." As Dean's jaw clenched, Sam pressed forward with his story, "And then I started to aimlessly search every street, every sidewalk, every alleyway for you," unconsciously he had changed tenses to first person as his emotions became more interwoven with his tale.

Sam's words convicted Dean, but not as deeply as the catch in that familiar voice, or the eyes that confessed hurts that would never be verbalized. Looking away from those eyes, Dean clenched his jaw tighter. Couldn't Sam see he had walked away because it was the best thing he could do, was the only way he knew how to keep Sam safe! Hadn't the fiery exploding motel room gotten the message through to Sam that being with him was like having a death wish!

When Sam fell silent, Dean faced his brother with a raised eyebrow. In his no-nonsense big brother tone, he demanded, "Tell me how you got the bruises, Sam." Dean didn't know what he expected Sam to say but it was not what his brother confessed.

"Then," Sam gave a quick, tremulously smile, his eyes conveying his trepidation in saying the rest. Taking in a breath, Sam confessed, "then I got an answer to my prayers. Sort of." And his mouth twisted up in a quirky sad smile, it brightened at his brother's evident surprised confusion. "I saw the Impala on the other side of the street and I just…ran for it…"his eyes bravely met Dean's, "across three lanes of traffic, right in front of a moving car."

Stunned, scared, relieved, Dean could only sit there in silence as he processed what Sam had done, why he had done it, how badly things could have turned out. On the heels of those thoughts came the self recriminations for letting Sam out there alone, making him so desperate, so reckless that he forgot about taking care of himself, of staying alive. _'Another great plan you had there, Winchester. Hurt Sam to save Sam, yup, worked like a charm, …if your idea of saving him was immortalizing him in some car's front grill!'_ But what came out of Dean's mouth was not an apology. "Sam, what were you thinking!" he sharply berated.

"You! I was thinking about you!" Sam said huskily, exposing the sentiments that were bleeding through his destabilized barriers. "About getting back to your side! About making sure you didn't die! I was thinking about you! You, Dean! Nothing else but you!" his breath ragged, heaving. Sam wished Dean would blink or break eye contact or show some sign that he understood Sam's desperation, that he knew how lost Sam was without him, that Dean would, just for a second, let his barriers drop enough to let his brother in.

Silence fell between them, louder than the playful shouts of the boys in the pool.

His emotions towards his brother teetering between love and exasperation, Dean shook his head. When would Sam get it through his thick head that he wasn't worth his love and would never _ever_ be worth Sam getting hurt.

Interpreting Dean's silence as a precursory for a complete emotional shut out, Sam boldly insisted, his voice soft, ineffectually masking his hurt. "You shouldn't have left, Dean. We stick together! It's us against everything and everybody else. We stay together!"

Unknowingly Sam's words gave answer to Dean's musing, proving irrefutably that Sam would never see him as he was, scarred, broken, _ruined_, ruined in ways that couldn't be glued back together even into a mocking guise of "normal." Gripped by frustration and fear, Dean scoffed bitterly, needing his brother to see the truth. "Together! Staying with me was going to get you killed! And it almost happened, back in that motel room. Did you want that? Did you want to die with me, Sam!"

"Yes!" burst from Sam instantaneously, fervently, his eyes lancing into Dean's. "Yes, damn it, yes!" Sam's voice cracked on the words but his eyes were unwaveringly resolved. "I survived Mom's death and Jess's because you were there for me! But I won't survive your death, Dean." Quietly, ominously he confessed again, "I won't."

"Come on, Sam," Dean roughly protested. His disbelief in Sam's declaration was expressed by his actions, the rolling of his head away from Sam, the fascination he had in the pool football game instead of facing his brother.

Desperate, Sam gripped Dean's arm, shook it, achieving his brother's exasperated green eyes back upon him. "No, you come on!" he snapped. "We're brothers, Dean! We're family! We're part of each other! We _complete_ each other! And today gave me a real taste of what it would be like if you died…. " Sam's voice shattered on the last word, causing him to break off, his teeth biting into his lower lip, his eyes shimmering. His mind's eye brutally replayed the previous day's 'mishaps', Dean falling over the railing, nearly being bludgeoned by a paint can, dodging out of the way of the truck, trapped under the two cars, lying on the sidewalk so very still, two bullet holes in the back of his jacket. Sam's breath caught in his throat and it was a moment before he could draw in enough air to continue. "Dean if you're gone …I…I can't take that, man. I …can't."

It was like Sam was taking an axe to Dean's carefully shored up defenses. Dean had plenty of fears about his ability to protect Sam but he had never _once_ feared Sam couldn't survive without him, wouldn't _try _to survive without him. Like a broadsword to the chest, Dean remembered Sam's response to his 'I drew the short straw, that's it, end of story' statement in the hospital after his electrocution; '_**We **still have options_.' Not _you_, but _we_, not Dean but _Sam **and** Dean_. A package deal, not sold separately. Together or not at all, that was how it was going to be, the only way Sam would _allow_ it to be.

Sam could see it in his brother's face, the dawning realization of how earnest his little brother's declaration was. Perceiving a weakening in Dean's barriers, Sam made his demands clear. "We can pretend all we want that we're strong, strong enough to handle anything but we're not. _I'm not._ I'm asking you to stop the '_pick someone else'_ attitude and '_for the greater good'_ sacrifices, because Dean, I can't deal with losing you, man." He let those words sink in, watched Dean's eyes register the direct hit his words were making. "So start taking care of yourself, think of different ways to save people other than offering up your life for theirs. Because when you risk _your life_, you risk mine too."

Dean swallowed, hard. There were no denials to be said, Sam's eyes cemented what his words shouted. They were in this together, today, tomorrow, and by the resolve in Sam's eyes, maybe even forever. Together, just like they had been yesterday, come hell or high water, fiery chili or fiery motel rooms, the Winchester boys were a packaged deal. "Yeah, alright. I can do that," Dean finally conceded, his voice uncharacteristically hoarse.

"Promise?" Sam goaded, his relief and elation bounding out of his smile like a tidal wave, watching Dean's own lips smirk back.

Faced with Sam's pleased expression, Dean could only mockingly grumble out his vow, "Yeah, I promise." Surprised by the happiness and peace that washed over him, Dean barely felt the weight of his oath settle on his shoulders.

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When they had returned to their room, Sam graciously allowed Dean first dibs on the bathroom. But as Dean went to pass Sam on his trek to the bathroom, Sam's hand fell onto his shoulder, causing Dean to look up warily, wondering what conditions came with his brother's generosity.

"The water pressure's pretty strong so you might want to take a bath," Sam suggested even as he braced himself for his brother's indignation at his suggestion. Dean didn't disappoint him.

"A bath!" Dean repeated, his annoyance and displeasure displayed in his tone and his scowl. "I don't take baths Sammy!" he announced, resuming his way to the bathroom,

"Right, you just ooohhh and ahhh over massage shower heads," Sam taunted before the bathroom door was promptly slammed in his face.

Unable to help himself, Sam stood at the bathroom door. Hearing the shower turn on, Sam clenched his jaw in aggravation. '_Stubborn idiot_!" When a grunt of pain came through the door followed by a string of curses, Sam reached for the door. But his hand stayed its motion as a new sound emerged; the sound of the bathtub being filled. A smile erased the frown on Sam's face.

"Shut up Sam!" came the bellow from within the bathroom, prompting laughter to sputter from Sam before he contently walked away, leaving his brother to his nice hot bath.

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Surprise registered with Sam as Dean, fully dressed and seemingly prepared to leave the room, emerged from the bathroom. "Where do you think you are going?" Sam demanded, an edge of challenge in his voice.

"Need a new phone cause someone stepped on mine," Dean supplied with a look of accusation, crossing over to retrieve his wallet from the nightstand.

"Your welcome," Sam smugly retorted, pleased to see that his brother's motions were more fluent than they were when he first woke up.

Shooting Sam a withering look, Dean sank down on the bed and leaned over to put on his shoes. Though Sam's water therapy had eased his tight muscles, it had done nothing to diminish the throbbing in his arm or ribs, two body parts that were necessary participates in the mundane practice of putting on one's shoes.

'_He's better but not cured_,' Sam concluded, grimacing as Dean winced in pain. Instantly, Sam crouched down at Dean's feet. "Here, let me do that." Pulling the boot from Dean's grasp, he lightly slapped away his brother's hands as they tried to reclaim the boot.

"Dude, I got it," Dean huffed, his eyes clashing with his little brother's.

Knowing that a different tactic was called for, Sam softened his tone. "Look Dean, it's no big deal. Turn around is fair play, right? Well, how many times as kids did you put on my shoes?"

Some of the frustration seeped from the set of Dean's shoulders and a devious glimmer entered his eyes. "A billion times except _this_ is what I had to put up with when I put on _your_ shoes…" and he began to swing his feet back and forth, and then side to side, making the prospect of getting said foot in said shoe a very trying one.

"Guess I should do to you what you always did to me. Tickle you," Sam happily threatened, his hand reaching up, heading for Dean's side, ready to begin the punishment.

Instantly Dean slapped Sam's approaching hand away, "No…No… Sam don't you dare! My ribs…" he stammered, grasping Sam's wrist, trying to divert his brother's tickling fingers.

Laughing, Sam dropped his hand. "Oh, now it's 'my ribs, my ribs'. Only a minute ago it was 'I'm fine, my ribs are fine.'"

"Shut up," Dean mumbled back, his brow creased in a pout worthy of a toddler.

"Good comeback," Sam smirked, pleasantly surprised to be permitted to put on Dean's shoes for him without further protests or more unruly feet.

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Dean's pursuit of a cell phone merchant led them into a shopping mall, complete with mothers blissfully on furlough from their motherly duties, retirees trying to fill up their endless day and working class stiffs who had somehow eluded work for the day. A mall was not Dean Winchester's normal habitat, their offerings too expense and their security cameras too frequent to risk whipping out a fraudulent credit card and possibly getting his gorgeous mug on a post office wall. It didn't mean he didn't enjoy the window shopping. But those heavenly Victoria Secret sales clerks almost had him parting with some of his hard earned cash.

During his brother's flirtation, Sam shook his head and walked out of the overly perfumed lingerie store. Crossing the walkway, he slipped into a shoe store, admiringly picking up a boot on display. Holding back the whistle at the price, he gingerly placed the boot back on the display tray. When he turned back to gauge how long Dean's antics would continue, he was surprised to see that his brother was not where he had left him. In fact, as Sam hurriedly walked back into the lingerie store, his eyes never landed on his brother's form.

Knowing his panic was just a residual reaction from the previous day's events, Sam took a deep calming breath before he began his search for Dean in earnest. His steps hurried, his eyes flickering from one store to another, Sam stalked down the wing of the mall, growing more desperate by the minute to catch a glimpse of his brother's brown hair, leather coat, ripped jeans. Desperation alone made him spare a glance into the Hallmark store.

He stumbled to a stop. There his brother was, standing inside a _Hallmark card shop_, reading greeting cards. '_What the_ ….!' went through Sam's mind before it clicked in his brain. '_I should have said it with a Hallmark card. I'll do that next time," _that had been Dean'scomeback to his anger at the crummy goodbye message Dean had left on his voice mail.

Gaining his brother's side, Sam was about to ream Dean out for his disappearing act but Dean spoke first, his eyes still on the cards on the shelves.

"I'm seeing a real untapped market. The closest thing I can find is a 'Condolences on the loss of your dog," Dean proclaimed, holding up a card for Sam's inspection. The card pictured a dog leaping in the air catching a Frisbee, the sketches of a park in the background. Opening the card, Dean began to read aloud in his best "stage" voice, "I know it's like losing a member of your family, that you feel like that void will never be filled again. But…"

Sam smacked Dean lightly on the back of the head, not hard enough to jar his brother's already abused head but certainly with enough of a sting to get his point across. "Idiot!" Sam growled, ripping the card from Dean's hand and shoving it back on the shelf. Then, latching onto Dean's jacket, Sam propelled his brother from the store.

"Maybe I could earn some bucks writing cards," Dean suggested, his grin at Sam a telling sign that he was enjoying teasing his sibling.

"Yeah, you've got a real talent for sentimentality," Sam said sourly, beginning to walk down the mall, his brother pacing him on his right side. "Let me see, there was the famous, '_I picked the short straw. That's it, end of story_.' Or maybe something more soft, '_I'm gonna die and you can't stop it_.' Or maybe something more emotional like, '_This is the way things need to play out today'." _

Unmindful of Sam's throbbing jaw that indicated he couldn't push Sam much further without reaping some serious consequences, Dean continued to quip, "You're right, they are all too mushy. Maybe I should go with more of the Arnold Schwarzenegger thing," and he mimicked and modified the famous "Terminator" line, "I **won't** be back."

"Go get your phone, Dean," Sam gruffly ordered, coming to a halt as the cell phone stand came into sight.

"You gotta admit, it's short and to the point," Dean persisted, giving Sam a flash of one of his widest smiles.

Shoving Dean toward the cell phone stand, Sam ordered, "Go," before he began to walk toward the bench he spied down the mall wing, fuming at big brothers who thought they were just so funny. When they weren't funny. At all.

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Sinking down onto the bench, watching Dean unleash his charm on the pretty blonde woman at the cell phone stand, Sam sighed. His stomach a hard ball of nerves, he knew he had put it off as long as he could. It was time to take _whatever_ steps were necessary to ensure Dean was safe next September 21st.

With trepidation, he dialed the number of the prison in New Mexico where Anna Corvante was spending her jail sentence. To Sam, research was always the first step toward a solution.

"Fielding Prison, what do you need?" came the gruff female greeting.

Confidently, Sam began lying through his teeth. "Yes, my name's Mark Ford and I'm a writer for Criminology Today. I was interested in discussing one of your inmates, a Anna Corvante with your resident psychologist."

The rough voice interrupted his smooth spiel, "She's dead."

Sam's pulse quickened, dread and hope mingling in his heart. "When?" he croaked out, clearing his throat before he clarified his question, "When did she die?"

"Yesterday."

Dread overshadowed hope but Sam forced a question from his closing throat, "What time yesterday?"

A long suffering sigh filled the phone line before Sam heard the shuffling of papers. It seemed an eternity before the gruff voice spoke again. "Ah…ok, here it is. 5:18 pm."

Sam couldn't breath, didn't _want _to process the words. '_She died before dusk…and it didn't break the curse. The fire, it happened at ten minutes before 7pm, an hour and a half **after** Anna Covante died._' Sam didn't even remember ending the call. All he knew was the curse wasn't broken and that the one person, the _only _person who had had the power to lift the curse was dead. '_And so is Dean, maybe not next year or even the next but sooner or late even Dean will fail to beat the odds. I could have broken the curse, I could have made sure Dean was safe but I didn't, I failed him. I failed him and he's going to go through hell every September 21st until the curse kills him! And it's all my fault!' _

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It was almost humorous to Dean, having his new phone ring as soon as his existing phone number was reassigned to it. Smiling, Dean boasted to the sales clerk, "I'm a popular guy," before he walked away, answering the call with a "Yeah."

He was not prepared to hear an official sounding voice inquire, "Is this Dean Winchester?"

Dean hesitated because, for all intents and purposes, Dean Winchester had died in St. Louis. "Yeah, this is Dean Winchester," he firmly replied, wondering if anyone had ever been arrested for impersonating himself.

"Hello, this is Melanie from the warden's office at Fielding's Prison. I believe you are next of kin to Anna Corvante."

It was a shock to hear that name a day after her curse had done everything in its power to make the news of his death go from bogus to bona fide. "Yes, she's my aunt, once removed on my father's side," he smoothly replied. "Is Aunt Anna doing OK?" wondering why he had the honor of this call.

"I'm sorry to inform you that Mrs. Corvante passed away. We tried to contact you immediately but we were unable to get through to this phone number," the woman contritely informed, as if she wanted to break the news to him gently.

"Ah…I had some phone issues. When did my aunt die?" he asked evenly, his heart thudding wildly in his chest, his life hinging on the answer.

"Yesterday in the early evening," came the reply.

Dean felt like the words were a nail in his coffin, two maybe. '_Early evening_!' repeated in his head, again and again. It was vague enough to allow the pendulum to swing either way. "What time exactly? Details are important in our family," he said, feeling sick.

"5:18," Melanie imparted like it were just any number, less meaningful than most in her opinion, never knowing that to the man she spoke to, the number meant the difference between peril and peace, life and death.

Coldness settled on Dean. The crone's death had not broken the curse. '_I might as well make up my headstone already. Date of death: September 21st! Year? To be determined!_'

The woman from the prison continued, seemingly with the misconception that she could offer him some comfort. "I know it seems very sudden but Mrs. Corvante was very ill. The doctors were amazed that she hung on as long as she did, seemingly by willpower alone. Then yesterday, well, she was in a lot of pain but refused any medication."

Numbly he asked, "She say anything, there at the end?" '_Did the old biddy gloat at the end? Knowing that she wouldn't have to wait too long until I would be joining her in the here after?'_

Melanie uncertainly provided, "I don't know. The nurses and doctors, they never said she was asking for someone. I really am sorry."

'_Yeah, sorry. But on the bright side, when this curse does me in, Sam can just dump my body in the coffin with the skin walker Dean, no need to spring for a new head stone.' _Aloud he was winding up his acting,_ "_Yeah, that Aunt Anna, what a pistol she was."

Silence fell as the conversation ran through Dean's head. Anna had hung on waiting for yesterday, hadn't wanted any medication to screw up her connection with the curse, wanted to _feel _him die. It didn't make sense. Her actions seemed desperate, a last grab for revenge but if the curse was suppose to continue even after her death….why did she hang around yesterday until 5:18.

"Sir, about the arrangements…" the woman pressed.

Gruffly, Dean replied, "Thanks for letting me know about my aunt. I'll have my lawyer contact you about the burial procedures." And his finger was reaching for the disconnect button, when it struck him. "Wait. Wait!" he called into the mouth piece.

"Yes," came the schoolmarm tone.

"New Mexico right? That's where you're at?" Dean asked, trying not to sound as unsteady as he felt.

"Yes, our prison is located right along the.." she began as if it was a vacation spot Dean would be rushing to see.

Rudely, he cut off her travel agent sales. "What time zone are you in?"

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When Dean approached Sam, the younger man sat on the bench, head down, so still that Dean wondered if he had dropped off to sleep. Kicking Sam's foot, Dean was unprepared to see the shattered look on his brother's upturned face. As soon as Sam's eyes alighted on his, they flickered away, to the floor, to the Gap store, to the BonTon entrance. Fear wrapped its snarled hand around Dean's heart. "What's wrong, Sam? You look like you're either gonna hurl or cry?" trying to make light of the emotions pinging off of them both.

Shaking his head, not in denial but in despair, Sam clamped his teeth deeper into his lip. Coming off the bench, he shoved his hands into his pockets, unconsciously hunched his shoulders and purposely didn't look at Dean. '_What's wrong? What's wrong!'_ shrieked through him, condemning him, breaking him. '_She's dead Dean and the curse…it's still _**there**_! And I..I don't know what to do now, I don't know how to protect you! This is going to happen all over again next year and the next year and it will keep happening until you are dead!' _A soft clearing of his throat escaped him, indicating that a sob was not far behind.

The sound pierced Dean to his very core, scaring him, hurting him. Latching onto Sam's arm, Dean spun Sam around far enough to face him, "Tell me what's wrong Sam?" he demanded, his frantic concern unmasked.

Sam could not look at Dean, would shatter at the love he knew would be in the green eyes, love for him, love he didn't deserve. '_I failed you Dean!_' He hated himself for not tracking down Anna Corvante yesterday and forcing her to undo the curse. Knowing, in the pit of his stomach, that he _couldn't_ protect Dean forever, had in fact, done a lousy job of protecting him _yesterday_! It was inevitable on some future September 21st that he would lose Dean, forever.

Feeling the anguish roll off of Sam, Dean dragged Sam down a small side wing of the mall that was nearly empty of patrons before bringing them both to a halt. When Sam still wouldn't meet his eyes, Dean put his hand under Sam's chin and gently raised his brother's head so their eyes met. But Sam eyes flickered to a spot behind Dean, purposefully avoiding his brother's green gaze. "Sam," Dean breathed with worry, his one hand tightly gripping his brother's shoulder. "Talk to me!" turning Sam's chin again, now to the right.

Sam's eyes skimmed across Dean's worried face and rested unfocused on whatever lay over his brother's other shoulder. '_I screwed up and you're going to pay the ultimate price, Dean. I had the means to stop the curse, she would have released the curse on you, I would have made her release it. But I didn't. Instead I choose the weak path, I hovered by your side and unknowingly doomed you to your fate!' _

Blinking back moisture in his eyes, Sam unconsciously sharpened his focus and it registered with him what he was looking at, a travel agency. What was in their display window made his breath catch. Side stepping Dean, Sam rushed to the travel agency's store front, his hand reaching out to touch the glass, to trace what lay under his fingers. A smile slowly grew on his face as his fingers traveled across the map of the United States, making the journey from the state they were in toward New Mexico, lovingly tracing the two time zone lines that lay between them and the now deceased Anna Corvante.

Dean came to Sam's side, worriedly studying the shifting expression on his brother's profile. "What? Now you want to travel _more_ than we already do?" Seeing Sam's smile increase, Dean felt panicked enough to growl out, "I'm not flying again, Sam. I mean it." Turning to Dean, Sam, sporting a joyous smile, looked suspiciously like he wanted to pull his brother into a hug, right there in public, in a _mall!_

'_Time zones_!' Sam's ecstatic relief broke free in the form of a snorted chuckle. New Mexico was two time zones away from the state they were in! When Anna Corvante gave up her hold on this world it was 7:18pm where Dean was…fourteen minutes after dusk. She died fourteen minutes **after **the curse released its hold on his brother!

"Dean.." Sam began, gripping Dean's jacket lapels in his excitement but then unexpectedly, he found he didn't _want _to tell Dean the good news, felt the words die in his throat. His rational side attributed his hesitancy to the possibility that the curse was not broken, that the woman's death, like he had believed after the prison phone call, had not been the demise of the curse. And giving Dean _false_ hope, making him think he was safe, encouraging him to let down his guard next year, it would be like signing his brother's death warrant. That was enough of a reason to stay silent….except it wasn't the one that drove Sam's reluctance.

Selfishness, that was at the heart of Sam's decision. With clarity, Sam knew that in a year's time the hunt for what killed Jess could be over, that he could be back to pretending to be just another 'normal' guy in the world, that he might no longer _be_ at Dean's side. And, if he were honest with himself, that thought did not comfort him or make him happy, not like he thought it would. Instead it saddened him, hurt him, scared him, making him recognize his overwhelming need for Dean to be part of his future, wherever that led, for him to be part of Dean's future, even if led to him hunting at his brother's side.

In a sick twist of fate, it was the curse, the _threat_ of the curse that could provide Sam with the means of ensuring the future he wanted. If Dean believed the curse still loomed over his head, Sam would have the leverage to _force_ Dean to allow him to spend at least every September 21st with him, to hover at his side, to laugh with him, to protect him if the need arose. It was selfish and cold and wrong but Sam found he couldn't, no _wouldn't,_ sever the binding tie the curse allowed him to have with Dean. Because, out of all the uncertainties in his life, Sam needed one sure thing; that next year he would be with his brother.

"What, Sammy?" Dean asked, gripping Sam's shoulders, searching his brother's face for answers, worried at Sam's abrupt silence.

"Nothing, I'm fine," Sam managed his voice thick, still emotionally reeling at his decision to conceal from Dean that fact that he was free of the curse, that he didn't need his little brother's services of protection next year. "Let's get out of here," Sam lowly said, slipping from his brother's hold and heading for the door, his conscience screaming at him to tell Dean about the broken curse.

Trying to conceal his surprise at his brother's fluctuating emotions, Dean teased, "I thought this was your natural habitat, Sammy. Doing the mall, being a normal college guy, buying overpriced t-shirts from these retail blood suckers," he baited, waving his hand at the high end clothing stores they walked by on their way toward the exit.

"Dean, I wasn't ever aiming for that kinda _normal_," Sam returned with a small smile, the guilt he felt at his decision waning under the joy of being with his brother. "See, I don't know if you know this or not, but my fashion sense was scarred at a young age because I spent my childhood getting my older brother's hand-me-downs. And let me tell you, they were scary things," he sallied, unable to suppress his laughter at Dean's scowl.

"Hey, that was Dad's fault! He wasn't interested in style or taste or what I wanted. All he cared about was cheap. Do you know how many fights I got into because of the way he made me dress! I mean, I looked like…" Dean stopped, looked at Sam, tilting his head, assessing his brother' outfit, before a grin sprang onto his face. "I looked like _you_, dude! And it royally sucked."

"Oh…if we weren't in a public place…." Sam threatened amid his laughter.

"You would start crying?" Dean supplied, earning a glare from Sam as they exited the mall.

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Finding the swimming pool once again overrun by Boy Scouts, the Winchester brothers retreated to the deserted Jacuzzi. Silently they watched the antics of the younger boys, not so much annoyed by their fellow swimmers as amused.

Unable to squelch the disquiet that hummed through his soul any longer, Sam, his tone as impassive as he could make it, pursued, "So…when you were shot before…."

Dean's surprise did not lessen the speed of his response. His eyes lancing into Sam's pleading eyes, the other occupants of the room forgotten, Dean lethally warned, "Don't, Sam."

Heedless of the warning bells in his head that knew Dean and this particular look of his only too well, Sam doggedly persisted, "Come on, Dean. You can't let something like that slip and then shut me out."

"Yeah. Yeah, I can," Dean shot back, his jaw clenched, his eyes set in granite, promising retribution if Sam didn't back off.

Knowing a brick wall when he ran into one, Sam dejectedly pulled his gaze from Dean, his unfocused eyes on the Boy Scouts. But the unease in his chest wouldn't dislodge, not when so much lay unresolved between the person he was supposed to be the closest to, know the most about. Biting his lip a moment, Sam faced Dean across the expansion of the Jacuzzi again. "So we can't talk about our four years apart. That the rule?" his voice quiet, trying to assess where the line was that Dean would not allow him to cross.

Dean's answering smirk was a mockery, void of the elements that always caused Sam to fight off returning the facial gesture. And when Dean spoke, it made everything worse.

"Sounds like a good idea to me," Dean lightly said, knowing that his refusal wasn't what his brother sought.

Hastily, Sam offered, "I'll tell you anything you want to know about my years at college," desperate to broker a deal. Dean's raised eyebrows of surprise and the cold anger in his look put a blush on Sam's cheeks. '_Good one, Sam. You kicked Dean out of your life and now you want to tell him all about that time! Like he wants to hear about it!_'

"I don't want to know anything," was Dean's steely reply, his eyes unflinchingly on Sam, sincere and dark.

Faltering under Dean's displeasure, Sam dropped his eyes, chastising himself for the self pitying hurt that skewed him. '_You pushed Dean out of your life, not the other way around. You wanted a life separate from Dean, well you got it, you had it. And with that wish you were out of Dean's life, you never knew when he was hurt, didn't even get a call when he was shot! _' Regret tore through Sam's heart. He couldn't undo what he had done, he knew that. But he had to find a way to mend the tears in his bond with Dean, had to believe it was within his power to restore the connection with his brother. Because if he couldn't, Sam knew something in him would break irreparably.

Gathering what courage he retained, Sam quietly prodded, his eyes meeting Dean's heated gaze, "Aren't you ever going to tell me about those years, Dean?" Even knowing that his words were treading on that fractured bridge that spanned between him and Dean, Sam persisted, wanting to know how unsteady the structure was, where he could step next, where the most reinforcements were required.

"You weren't there Sam!" Dean accused bitterly, his anger fueled by Sam's projection of being the hurt party in their separation. "Heck, Dad wasn't there that much! It was just me and…" Dean halted the rest of his words, clenched his jaw, hating that he was balancing on the edge of his control. '_Sam always does this to me, makes me **feel**, **want**, **regret**_.' Suddenly Dean envisioned Sam being with him during those years apart, facing the dangers he had, suffering the wounds he had, being dragged through the emotional wringer like he had been. '_And I'm pissed he wasn't there! I should be thanking God Sam wasn't there, was safely at Stanford! That he wasn't at my side, foolishly risking his life to protect me …like he did yesterday.'_ That thought stole his breath away, cemented what he had just come to understand. '_If I had to do those years over again…I wouldn't want Sam with me. Son of a…' _he broke off his curse, shaking his head in disbelief and wonder. Maybe fate wasn't such a prick after all.

Captivated by the varying emotions that seeped through his brother's barriers, Sam felt worry latch onto him as he watched Dean shake his head in disbelief. "Dean?" he called out anxiously, sliding closer to Dean. When Dean's look met his, Sam was treated to one of his brother's authentic smirks, accompanied by a snort of laughter and another shake of Dean's head.

"Tell you what, Sammy. I'll play you for it," Dean lightheartedly proposed, feeling like some of the weight that he had lugging around had lifted.

Thrown off kilter by his brother's sudden change, Sam stammered, "Play me for what?"

Enjoying his brother's confusion, Dean scoffed, "A million dollars. What do you think, jerk?" A pause held before he sighed. "I'll tell you what you want to know."

Sam sat up straight, intent, his eyes searching Dean's for some catch, some wall that would erect between them if he said the wrong thing. When Dean simply sat there, his smirk still present, his eyes lighting up in challenge, Sam ventured, "You're really going to tell me how you got shot, the whole thing, the unedited version."

"Only if you win, Sammy. Only if you win," Dean clarified, his cocky smile broadcasting what he thought the odds were on _that_ happening.

"Win what?" Sam said, cocking his head to the side, trying to figure out what had changed his brother's mind and in the same moment, too darn grateful to care.

"Whatever we're playing? Poker? Straight pool? Arm wrestling? Doesn't matter, I can beat you in it all," Dean sallied back, leaning back against the Jacuzzi, confidence oozing off of him.

"Yeah, but if I win…" Sam qualified, needing to know the rules, to make sure Dean didn't try to squirm out of the deal.

"You won't, but if by some small chance you did win, I'll give you all the gory details about when I got shot." When Sam's face clouded over and he opened his mouth to protest, Dean clarified with a long suffering tone, "Yeah, Sam _the first time_." Dean shook his head, eyebrows cocked. "You know, you're sick, right? I mean, most brothers want to swap tales about scoring dates, kicking the crap outta some guy that was asking for it or winning football games. Not my little brother."

"That's because my big brother is out there daring every evil thing to take his head off," Sam retorted, a reprimand in his tone, contracting with the concern pouring out of his eyes as they fixed on his brother.

"I don't dare…" Dean heatedly objected but fell silent as Sam's eyes tracked something behind him. Turning his head to the side, Dean found a freckled faced red haired boy crouched besides his shoulder, his small expectant face focused on him.

"Hey mister, can you teach me how to throw the football? You know, like you did Matt?" the boy softly asked, his small finger pointing over to the pool where Matt, the boy Dean had interacted with earlier in the day, stood.

Dean capitulated to the boy's request without hesitation. "Sure thing, kid," he agreed, climbing from the Jacuzzi. He gave Sam a dazzling smile that boasted, 'I'm the man' before he began to make his way over to the other boy, the freckled boy skipping along at his side with excitement.

Smiling and shaking his head at his brother, Sam watched Dean come to stand beside the two boys, looking like a looming giant in their presence. As if the same feeling had struck Dean, the elder Winchester knelt down beside the red haired boy. A grimace of pain flickered on Dean's face at the action but it didn't diminish the warm gaze he leveled at the small boy. Then Dean gently positioned the freckled boy's small hands on the football, guiding the boy's arm into the motions that would lead to a perfect football pass.

Sam was mesmerized by the scene. Vividly he remembered Dean, a kid Dean, teaching him how to throw a football, leveling that compassionate, patience, encouraging gaze at him, telling him that he could do it, that Dean _knew_ he could do it. Suddenly Sam chided himself, '_Heck, Sam why don't you head to the baby pool_ _where you belong,' _because right then he felt like he was just a breath away from bawling his head off.

"Heads up!" Dean's voice suddenly called out. Having barely raised his head in time, Sam still caught the football easily, a testament to his big brother's teachings. Ordered to join his brother's little group by the jerk of Dean's head, Sam smiled and got out of the Jacuzzi. Contently he made his way to his brother's side, sparing a glance at the two small boys that were lifetime members of Dean's personal fan club. The boys had already abandoned their NFL dreams for the simplicity of a good water battle in the pool.

Sitting on the edge of the pool, his feet dangling in the water, Dean looked up at Sam, pleased to see a smile brightening his brother's features. His eyes tracked Sam as he crouched down beside him and handed the ball to Matt.

Now back in possession of the football, the boys called out in chorus to Dean, "Play with us!"

"Sam will play with you," Dean replied and without any warning, he gave Sam a shove.

Unprepared for his brother's actions, Sam toppled head first into the pool. When his head broke the surface of the water, Sam was sputtering and laughing. Pointing menacingly at Dean, he threatened, "If you didn't look abused to within an inch of your life, I would drown you in this pool!"

"Oh, really, little brother," Dean challenged, cocky smile in place as he hopped into the water and began advancing towards Sam.

Raising his hands in a sign of non aggression, Sam backed up with each step Dean took towards him, "Dean, we are not rough housing with you hurt?"

"Rough housing!" Dean sputtered, his forward offensive delayed by his mirth. "Who are you, Ward Cleaver? The Beaver's dad!"

Then Dean was advancing again towards Sam, a gleam in his eye. He was unprepared for the wall of water that impacted his face, delivered courtesy, not Sam, but Matt. Turning to the boy, water dripping into his eyes, Dean playfully growled, a smile on his lips, "Oh, you're in for it now, kiddo," eliciting a giggle from the boy. Taking huge steps towards the two boys, Dean did his best impression of Godzilla in the water, causing both boys to laugh and go screaming away from him. Joining in his brother's game, Sam stepped forward and cut off the boys' escape, more giggles erupted as the Winchesters closed in on their prey.

Across the small boys' heads, the Winchester's eyes met and Dean felt his heart constrict. His brother was wearing the biggest smile he had ever seen on the adult Sam's face, and his laughter was easy and full of life. Sam's happiness was evident for all to see but it was what was in his little brother's eyes that gripped Dean's heart. Dean knew that look, had sorely missed its presence, had feared that Sam would never level that look at him again. The look that said Sam was glad they were brothers and nothing in the world would change that.

Matt's attempt to slip by Sam broke their silent link. Catching Matt around the waist, Sam swung him in the air, eliciting a squeal of laughter from the boy. For Dean, the scene triggered memories of playing with a young Sam in countless pools and water holes growing up. Pulling back from the 'rough housing', Dean regained his position on the rim of the pool, his attention drawn to the swimming relays of older Boy Scouts.

When Sam looked up and found that Dean had slipped quietly away, he felt disappointment hum through him. "Alright guys, you're on your own," he said to the two boys before he headed for his brother. Discerning a change in Dean's mood, Sam claimed a seat beside his brother but said nothing, his head turned to study Dean as the older man watched the relays. "So what's going on in that freaky head of yours?" Sam gently asked, coining his brother's phrase.

Turning his look upon Sam, Dean said sincerely, his voice low with emotion, "Thanks, Sam. For yesterday. You kept me alive, man."

Feeling as if the last statement held a deeper meaning, Sam swallowed hard, his eyes not as dry as they were a moment ago. "That's what brothers do, right? You've protected me all those years, it's about time I paid back some of what I owed you."

"Sam, you don't owe me…" Dean began to refute, only to have Sam's insistent voice overshadow his.

"Yeah, yeah I do." Sam looked away, wanting to say more, _needing_ to say more. Facing Dean again he haltingly revealed, "I…I finally understand what it feels like to accept the full responsibility of protecting someone else's life, to have that person's life put into _your hands_, a life that you value more than your own."

"Sam.." Dean wanted to preempt his brother's confession, to tell him that it was OK, that they didn't require any words between them.

But Sam didn't take the escape Dean offered. "I…I've never felt that _weight_ before. I thought I had, thought I knew that feeling but yesterday…" Sam broke off, shook his head to gather his emotions, to quell the trembling in his voice. Breathing out deeply, gathering strength from his brother's warm gaze, Sam marshaled the willpower to continue. "When you had your heart attack, your life was not so much in my hands as the faith healer's, but yesterday, _yesterday_ it was just me standing between you and …" his breath hitched and he felt Dean's hand comfortingly squeeze his shoulder.

Leaning closer to Sam, Dean declared huskily, his eyes meeting Sam's. "And you did it, Sam. You saved me, risked your life doing it, you dumb idiot, but you did it."

"I'll do it again, Dean. As often as I have to," Sam vowed, fervently. "I'll do it again next year," Sam said before he remembered that his oath was unnecessary, that his protection was unnecessary, that Dean would deem his _presence_ unnecessary if he knew the truth. As if he expected that the truth might spill from him unintentionally, Sam clenched his jaw tightly shut.

Dean felt shame tighten his chest, his brother's words convicting him. He couldn't do it, he couldn't let Sam worry needlessly about next year. Letting his hand slide from Sam's shoulder, fearing that his brother wouldn't want his touch when he knew the truth, Dean leaned away from Sam and took in a deep breath. "I'm gonna be alright next year, Sam," his words quiet, hued with gentle conviction.

Feeling the surface of panic as Dean's bravado threatened to foil all that his deception had aimed to achieve, Sam shot back forcefully, "Yeah, _you are_ because I'm going to be right there with you, protecting your reckless butt."

Dean shook his head sadly, Sam's concern for him and his 'reckless butt' heaping more coals on his head. The words did not come easily, his fear at what came next eating at him, dodging his breath, making his confession stilted. "No, Sam, I mean…the curse..it's over. The crone's dead, died yesterday after dusk," he said, steeling himself for whatever punishment Sam would level at him.

Sam's breath caught in his throat, his eyes widened, he swallowed audible. '_Dean knows! He knows he doesn't need me next year, that there's no reason why we have to spend September 21st together….no reason except that it's what I **want**…what I **need**.._' "Dean.." he began, ready to place doubt on the curse's expulsion, to argue that next year they should still be wary, to be on their guard, to be together. The look in Dean's eyes dried out his mouth, making speech an effort. Fear, it wasn't something Sam saw often in his brother's usually cocksure expression but it was there now, in close quarters with his brother's resignation. Sam didn't understand what prompted the emotions in Dean, only knew that the same emotions had gathered in his own gut. Dropping his head, Sam rubbed his hands down his thighs before he looked up again, his brother's eyes even darker when he met them again. "I know," Sam quietly confessed, had to clear his throat to continue, "I called the prison today…they told me."

Confusion washed over Dean. "You _knew_. Why didn't you say something?"

Sam looked away, his jaw clenched, his eyes tense. Misinterpreting Sam's reaction, Dean reassured, "Sam, there's a time difference, when she died.."

Facing Dean again, Sam finished, "it was past dusk here. I know."

Silence fell and even their locked gazes could not convey the ravaging emotions that vibrated between them. It was Sam who ventured forward on their fractured bridge of brotherhood. "You said you didn't want me to pick up and leave after the hunt was over…well, I don't want us to lose what we have between us either, not again Dean. And I thought," Sam bit his lip, his eyes darting away only to settle back on his brother, conviction and desperation in their depths, "I thought if you believed the curse was still hanging over you…you would…we would…"

"What?" Dean gently pressed, hating to see apprehension darken Sam's eyes, to hear the tremble in his brother's voice.

His brother's one word, the unwavering support that blazed in Dean's eyes gave Sam the courage to boldly profess, "I just wanted a sure thing, Dean. Alright!"

"What sure thing!" Dean said in quiet confusion, wanting to understand, needing to understand.

His shimmering eyes fixed intently on his brother, Sam softly stated, "That next year on September 21st we'd be together, no matter what."

Blindsided by Sam's confession, Dean's brow creased. "You really want that? For us to spend the day together next year, curse or no curse?" Dean asked, his tone tremulous, soft.

"Yeah, I do," Sam answered unswervingly, watching surprise glitter in his brother's eyes.

Dean felt the shock of his brother's words, of Sam's desire, reverberate down to his core. '_Sam wants what I want. He didn't tell me about Anna's death for the same reason I didn't tell him. Neither one of us wanted to spend the next September 21st apart.'_

When Dean remained silent, his stunned look offering Sam no solace, Sam quietly posed in his most heartbreakingly vulnerable tone, "Don't you want us to be together, Dean?"

"Yeah, but I didn't think…what if…the hunt might be over, Sam," Dean stammered, his own emotions scattered, his walls crumbling under the siege only his brother could have waged.

"Which is exactly why I wanted some leverage, some way I could _make _you let me spend the day with you, whether you were on a hunt or not," Sam emphatically explained.

His eyes locked with Sam's, Dean felt a lump form in his throat and his eyes suspiciously got blurry. "Sam…" he choked out.

"Hey no water works in front of the Boy Scouts, Dean!" Sam scoffed shakily, his own eyes in the same sorry watery state as Dean's. "I have a reputation to protect, you know."

"Your reputation!" Dean scoffed back, playfully shoving Sam's face to the side, eliciting laughter from Sam. "It's _my_ reputation on the line here. Those kids look up to me.."

"Sure they do.." Sam agreed but the unholy light in his eyes told Dean that wasn't necessarily a good thing. "They have to look up to you…you're taller than they are."

"Oh, you are quite the _commodian_, Geek Boy!" Dean growled, secretly enjoying the sight of Sam's smile and the sound of his brother's startled chuckle. Making the effort to climb to his feet, Dean warned, "Sammmm" as his brother immediately climbed to his own feet, his hand wrapping supportively around Dean's elbow. When he was on steady feet, Dean ripped his elbow from Sam's hold but it was not a frustrated look that he leveled at Sam.

Sam's stomach churned as Dean's eyes sparkled with the joy of a new found idea. The flash of Dean's cocky smile brought Sam's apprehension up another ten notches. "No, whatever you're thinking, it's no, Dean!" he refuted whatever reckless scheme was bouncing through his brother's head. Dean made no comment save throwing an ever wider smile to Sam as he began walking toward the chairs, causing his brother to trip along at his heels in worry. "I mean it, Dean. Whatever crazy…"

"I say we start now," Dean calmly stated, out of the blue, his eyes striving to be serious as they met Sam's.

Hesitantly, Sam asked, "Start what Dean?"

"The competition. Your quest for answers," Dean answered, his tone mockingly accepting.

"What? Here?" Sam exclaimed looking around the room as if for the first time. "There's no poker table, no pool table, Dean."

"There's a swimming pool, Sammy. We'll do that cannonball competition like we always did, see who can create the bigger splash." Turning around to again face the pool which lay a few paces away, Dean shot his brother the exact look he had when they were kids. The cocky 'you're never gonna beat me, Sammy,' look that always irked Sam's pride and spurred the younger boy to take up whatever gauntlet his brother had issued.

Slipping in front of Dean, Sam placed his hands on Dean's chest, obstructing his brother's path to the pool. "No way!" Sam forbad, sparks flying from his eyes as they collided with the stubborn mischief in Dean's eyes. "I mean it, Dean. No!" he threatened darkly, the dire consequences for defiance unspoken but profoundly implied.

"I'm up for a little rough housing," Dean boasted, oblivious or untroubled by his brother's promised retribution. Pushing Sam's hands away from his chest, he stepped forward, forcing Sam to step backwards to keep in front of him.

"I mean it Dean, with your ribs and," Sam purposely dropped his voice to utter the next two words, "_bullet wound_ …"

"Don't be such an old lady, Sam! Why don't you live a little," Dean taunted, standing toe to toe with his brother.

"I live a lot!" Sam insisted, his voice rising.

Dean snorted, "Four years of college and that's your defining statement, 'I live a lot!'"

"Shut up!" Sam volleyed back, falling back into his little brother role without his notice.

"More college speak, oh please stop talking over my head, Sammy! You make me feel so..inferior," Dean sarcastically whined.

"That's it. If you get in that pool, I'm going to hold your head underwater, I mean it Dean," Sam threatened, his eyes wavering between humor and worry.

It was that spark of worry in his brother's eyes that made Dean relent, made his big brother heart cater to his brother's wishes. "Fine," he drawled, raising his hands in surrender. "You got me too terrified to defy you, Sammy," he sallied, patting Sam on the chest before he turned around, making his way back toward the chairs that held their belongings.

As he did Sam's bidding, Dean realized it wasn't so bad, being protected by his kid brother. In fact, it was humbling to know what Sam was willing to risk to keep him safe. In Dean's life, having a sanctuary had always been a pipe dream, only existing for the normal people of the world, fools too naïve to know it was all a myth, a trick of smoke and mirrors. But as Dean remembered yesterday's events, how tenaciously his brother had protected him, how tenderly he had cared for his hurts, how resolutely he had stood at his side amid a burning room, Dean discovered that his very own sanctuary was right there, in the person of his six foot four inch, brown haired little brother.

Having trailed Dean back to the chairs, Sam stood beside his brother, surprised at the warm look Dean bestowed on him. Joy flared in Sam as he sensed that his connection to his brother was now forged together stronger than ever. But a moment later confusion set in when he was bestowed with one of Dean's cocky smirks.

"Dean, I said no!" Sam growled, struck with his brother's intentions, his hand grasping for his brother, his fingers raking air only. Even as he took a few running steps in pursuit, Sam already knew he was too late. All he could do was watch Dean leap from the rim of the pool, curl himself into a ball midair and drop into the water.

Dean's cannonball sent water splashing over Sam, Dean's two fan club members and half the occupants of the pool. When Dean's head broke the water's surface, it was to find Sam standing on the rim of the pool, his dark look searing into Dean's smiling eyes. "Losing sucks doesn't it, Sammy," Dean taunted but found himself backing up in alarm when Sam, with a dangerous glint in his eyes, dove into the pool. "Crap!" Dean exclaimed, turning around, readying to swim for his life. A hand wrapped around his ankle, foiling his escape and yanking him under the water. When a moment later his ankle was freed, Dean swam quickly to the surface, greeted by Sam's looming presence. Before Dean could thrash away, Sam's freakishly long fingered hand came to rest ominously on his head.

"I'm going to drown you and dad will never find out.." Sam threatened, the light in his eyes doing nothing to lessen the danger Dean felt.

"Hey, hey what about the no rough housing rule? Hurt guy here!" Dean sputtered, pool water seeping into his mouth, recognizing that he was a breath away from getting dunked.

"Stupid guy you mean," Sam countered, his lips however, were unable to keep the smile at bay a moment longer. Abandoning his fierce façade, Sam gave the top of Dean's head a duck rub, sent a splash of water into Dean's face and sprang away from his older brother like he was a rattlesnake.

"Oh, you're a dead man," Dean vowed, laughing as he pointed a menacing finger at his brother before he began swimming towards a retreating Sam. Suddenly knowing in his heart that, though Sam had grown up, had been out on his own for awhile, he was still his little brother. And that assured his victory because, little brothers always lost out to big brothers, that was just the way things were meant to be. "You're toast, little brother," Dean promised threateningly, his hand nearly grasping Sam's flailing foot.

Unknowingly, their brotherly antics captured the rapt attention of the pack of Boy Scouts. It made some boys miss their own brothers and sparked in others a yearning to have a brother. Because watching the two Winchesters in action, it was obvious. There was nothing in the world like having a brother.

THE END!

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Well, there it is! Finished with a bow on it. Thanks for letting me torture the boys (and you), for enduring the chick flick moments, and allowing me to ramble on seemingly without end when things could have been said in ten words or less.

I've gotten the most reviews with this story and it both overwhelmed and touched me. Thank you all for your irreplaceable support! Like I've said before, it's your wonderful reviews that prodded me to continue the story, and to strive to top my own writing expectations. Be assured, your kindness made an impact in my life!

And thank you to all those who read the story in silence! You and I are not so different, trust me! Writing a story is easier than reviewing for me! Guess it's because when I review, it's about my emotions, not my fictional character's.

I've really enjoyed the time we've spent in each others company. Hope to read great Supernatural stories from you all! But one thing I know. As I watch those gorgeous Winchester boys take on evil, you all are right there with me, probably jumping at the same things I do. Ah, what I put myself through for the love of a good man like Dean.

Have a great day! You deserve it!

Cheryl W.

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